


Bat Out of Hell

by kamerlort



Series: Uthando [2]
Category: Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle (2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Real World, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, M/M, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Porn With Plot, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-05 03:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18357722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamerlort/pseuds/kamerlort
Summary: Russel Van Pelt is not a good man, this Nigel Billingsley knows. He’s cold, ruthless, and willing to find the Jewel of Jumanji by any means necessary. The problem in itself is that Billingsley likes the other man’s dangerous qualities a little too much for his own good.





	Bat Out of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to finally release this monstrosity to the world. Ever since I first watched Jumanji WTTJ, I was obsessed with the idea of Van Pelt and Nigel being secret lovers. Anyways, special shoutout to all my friends who listened to me ramble nonsense about these two for over a year. Hope you all enjoy this fic and appreciate this Peltingsley bullshit!

[ ](https://ibb.co/R9k32N4)

 

 

 

I .  _There's a man in the shadows with a gun in his eye  
And a blade shining, oh, so bright_

-

“And this goes to show,” said Nigel Billingsley forthright, “that the jungle is no place for a fainthearted traveler.”

Inside the cramped barrack, a man screamed in agony, sprawled out over a blood-soaked cot. The three deep gashes alongside his calf oozed scarlet red as a nearby doctor attempted to pack the wound with tissue and gauze, brows furrowing with each painful exclamation her patient made.

“You’re lucky it was just one swipe. If that jaguar had gotten any closer, you’d be a dead man.”

The man on the cot offered no words to Billingsley, teeth clenched tightly together as a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. With a tut of sympathy, the field guide squared his shoulders and exited the wooden cabin, unflinching as another shriek pierced the air and upsetted a nearby flock of birds that pecked the ground outside.

Twilight had descended upon the vicinity of Billingsley’s camp, nestled in the valley just a few kilometers outside the bustling island port. The northern harbor had been crawling with a new throng of would-be travelers, desperate for a taste of the untamed wild that Jumanji had to offer and their pockets could pay for. Billingsley had told his previous employer that exploring the jungle would not be a trifle walk through the bush. It ended up costing him nearly half a liter of blood, if the field guide were to guess by the bloody trail that dotted a path in the dirt.

Directly opposite of the barracks sat Billingsley’s quarters, built out of an old garrison that had been long-abandoned since the War. As Billingsley prepared himself for a night of hopefully uneventful rest, the telltale sound of an automobile in the distance caught his ear. The steady thrum of its engine grew louder, and the field guide turned just in time to see a distant vehicle crest the nearby hill.

An inkling of unease traveled down Billingsley’s spine. Adjusting the hat that rested upon his head, he watched as the dark vehicle sped down the dirt road and came to an abrupt stop about ten meters away.

The automobile’s engine rattled to a lifeless end, a slight hiss of steam crackling beneath the hood. Billingsley watched as the dust finally settled, and out stepped a man from behind the driver’s seat. From a distance his face was indistinguishable, obscured by a mop of dark hair that shrouded his face. The long overcoat he wore seemed out of place, especially for the subdued heat of sunset.

“Are you Nigel Billingsley?” the man questioned, his deep baritone voice cutting through the still air.

Billingsley stared, quirking his head slightly to the side. “That is my name. Who may I ask is inquiring?”

Without responding, the man began to stalk toward Billingsley, expression indiscernible in the indigo light above. Stretching to full height as he held his ground, Billingsley kept his gaze steady as the man ascended up the wooden steps, silent but for the sound of his boots.

“I’m terribly sorry, but my services are closed for the night. I’d suggest that you come back in the morning if you’d like to talk.”

The man shifted, eyeing Billingsley with what he could only describe as cold indifference. “I doubt you would be willing to turn away an opportunity like this.”

Billingsley tried not to openly gape at the man, stomach twisting in unease with each second that passed under his unblinking stare. Feeling foolish, he turned around and swung the door to his quarters open, allowing the stranger entrance. Following behind him, Billingsley reached for an oil lantern that hung on a nearby peg beside the door.

In the matter of a few moments, the room was flooded with a warm, orange glow. Setting the lantern atop his desk, Billingsley finally allowed himself a good, careful look at the stranger that had intruded on his privacy.

A feeling of familiarity pricked at Billingsley as he took the other man in. His visage was hardened, all sharp angles seemingly carved from stone. The neutral expression on his face offered no clear intentions, and Billingsley was frustrated at the inability to place the other man’s name when it finally hit him like a punch to the gut. Before Billingsley could speak, the other man introduced himself.

“My name is Russel Van Pelt. I am in need of someone who expertly knows the lay of this land, and I’ve been told that someone is you.”

Blinking away the shock of the archeologist's presence, Billingsley shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, I am the main field guide for hire around here—or rather one of the only field guides worth hiring. There aren’t too many people who are eager to brave the wilderness of Jumanji.”

Van Pelt nodded, turning to face a nearby cluster of maps that were tacked on the adjacent wall. Billingsley swallowed as he watched Van Pelt’s eyes rake over the charts, darting back and forth between the ink scrawls.

“I believe I’ve discovered the true location of the Jewel of Jumanji.”

Billingsley froze, taken aback by the suddenness of his statement. “The Jewel of Jumanji? I thought it was just a myth. A local legend, no doubt.”

“It’s real,” Van Pelt murmured, turning back to face the other man. “And I intend to find it.”

With a scoff, Billingsley removed his slouch hat and set it beside the lantern, avoiding Van Pelt’s cold stare. “In all the years I’ve lived on this island, I’ve never once encountered any kind of evidence that could prove the Jaguar Shrine’s existence.”

“You’ve explored the entire island, then?”

Billingsley stiffened. “No, but I don’t think I need to.”

“I’m guessing that you haven’t traversed the mountains that lie east of the canyon,” Van Pelt exlaimed, his accusatory tone grating against the field guide’s ears. “Have you?”

Spinning on his heel, Billingsley fought to keep back a biting retort, plastering a fake smile on his face as he clasped his hands behind his back. “The mountains are not easy to summit even for someone of my expertise. I’m assuming you have experience in that area?”

Billingsley was surprised to watch the other man huff out a laugh, his teeth glinting in the low light of the room.

“I do. My offer still stands.”

Ridding himself of his vest, the field guide deliberately turned his back to Van Pelt and feigned a disinterested yawn. “Come back in the morning, and I’ll have an answer for you then.”

Billingsley did not have to see Van Pelt’s face to know that the other man was brewing with anger. Reaching for a nearby bottle of whiskey and a shot glass, the field guide made it clear that their conversation had reached it’s end.

“A thousand dollars wouldn’t change your mind?”

Nearly choking on a mouthful of liquor, Billingsley tried to mask his discomfort with a cough as the alcohol burned down his throat. Turning to face the other man, he stubbornly wiped his chin and set one gloved hand on his hip.

“You’re willing to pay me _that_ kind of money for my assistance? And here I was suspecting you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

Van Pelt watched him with his arms crossed, black eyes expressionless. Shifting beneath his unblinking stare, Billingsley let out a sigh of resignation.

“Alright then. Alright. I suppose it would be rewarding to know whether or not the legend of the Jewel rings true... especially now that my last employer is compromised at the moment. However, I must ask—how do you plan to go about this?”

“I have a team of over thirty men. Trained men, ready for the worst the jungle has to offer.”

“Well then!” Billingsley exclaimed, pouring out another spot of whiskey. “I do hope they’re trained for anything, because the jungle does not take kindly to the unprepared.” In the back of his mind, he sympathized for the poor bastard that was still bleeding out on the other side of his camp.

Extending the glass as a symbol of peace, Billingsley tried not to appear affronted as the other man ignored the offering. Deciding not to take offense, the field guide downed the drink in one go and mulled over his next response.

“I have to admit... I never expected to see a man of your reputation here of all places,” Billingsley began, looking over Van Pelt as innocuously as he could.

“Certain things have come to pass.”

“So it would seem. Well then, if everything’s settled, I believe I should retire for the night.” Offering forth a handshake, Billingsley met Van Pelt’s brooding gaze. “I’m sure this will be an exciting mission.”

“I look forward it,” Van Pelt murmured, taking his hand in a firm but gentle grip. Billingsley merely smiled in turn, unperturbed as the other man released him and made way to the door. Unexpectedly, he paused with one gloved hand fastened to the doorknob.

“Be at the Bazaar by noon tomorrow. We’ll be waiting for you there.”

Billingsley hummed in affirmation, watching as Van Pelt meandered for a few seconds more. With a final curt nod, he tore open the door and exited out into the tail-end of dusk. The heavy stomp of his boots soon faded, and the spluttering sound of a departing automobile echoed through the restless jungle trees.

 

 

When Nigel Billingsley was much younger, still wet behind the ears and fresh out of the infantry, he discovered a passion for the informative serials that laid between the pages of _The New Zealand Herald_. Men like Frederick Cook and Robert Peary thrilled him endlessly with their escapades, and instilled in him a desire to travel the world and seek out the unknown.

He had only just turned twenty-five when he boarded a cruising yawl that was headed for Morocco. Along the way, the ship had ported at an island unheard of by Billingsley at a time. He decided on a whim to take a stroll along the bustling marketplace just outside the port.

He never did manage to find his way back to the boat, though that was probably for the better.

Nearly a decade had passed since Billingsley first stepped foot on the island of Jumanji. Within those ten years, the majority of the men he had idolized so much in his youth had died, old age claiming bodies that had once traversed continents. And yet, despite the fact that the people he idolized had passed on to the next life, their legacy continued with a new wave of like-minded adventurers.

_Dr. Smolder Bravestone_ was a name unlike anything Billingsley had heard before, something he initially believed had been some kind of farcical parody. Despite his skepticism, however, there among the various columns of news and politics sat a picture of a hulking Samoan man with a head as bald as a newborn baby’s. Billingsley found Bravestone captivating, and always looked forward to reading about the adventures he had with his partner and colleague, Professor Russel Van Pelt.

While Billingsley packed his various necessities early the next morning, he couldn’t help but wonder what could have caused such a dramatic change in Van Pelt. The man he had encountered the night before was not the same man he remembered from the newspapers, often smiling with Bravestone right there alongside him.

As usual, the Bazaar was bursting with unbridled energy, people crowding every street and alleyway that stretched along the mountainside. Van Pelt had offered no detail of his exact whereabouts, and yet Billingsley could sense that the air hung heavy with a certain somber energy that could only lead to the archeologist. Clinging to the straps of his knapsack, he cautiously made his way through the throng of bodies that bustled about him.

Out of the corner of Billingsley’s eye, he caught sight of a man who was standing at attention near the entrance of a local tavern. The man looked out of place, dressed in dark clothes that clashed heavily with the colorful tapestries of the Bazaar. Hair slicked back in a military-like fashion, Billingsley knew he had to be one of Van Pelt’s hired men. Weaving between people as politely as he could, the field guide came to a stop just a few meters away from the man, craning his head back to take in his impressive height.

The other man either hadn’t noticed Billingsley or hadn’t cared to acknowledge him, for he continued to stare ahead as if he were made of solid stone. Deciding it was best not to provoke him, Billingsley peered through the arched doorway and into the shabby barroom. An army of similarly dressed men all huddled around alcohol-stained tables, glasses of rakı and handiya in hand.

“I see you’ve made it here in one piece. That’s reassuring.”

Turning on his heel, Billingsley couldn’t suppress a smile as he took in the sight of Van Pelt, standing below the intense summer sun in the same heavy overcoat he wore the night before.

“Thankfully I know my way around the Bazaar almost as well as I know my way around the jungle. Are you sure you aren’t burning up in that tarp, mate?”

Ignorning the other man’s jab, Van Pelt moved past Billingsley and into the tavern, his coat flowing behind him in an almost comical fashion. Forcing himself not to grin, Billingsley followed Van Pelt through the intricate archway and sidled up next to him at the main counter.

“I waited near the center of the marketplace before one of your fellow explorer-types mentioned that you had already wandered off,” the archeologist began, his tone half-annoyed, half-accusatory.

Billingsley gave the other man a look of innocence, eyelashes fluttering in a beguiling fashion. “I thought it best to use my navigation skills and find you first, considering your rather cryptic instructions last night.”

The bartender set two glasses of alcohol in front of them, the liquid inside a dark amber. Van Pelt wasted no time in taking the drink in hand, and Billingsley noted with latent surprise that the other beverage was intended for him.

“Are you prepared for our departure?” Van Pelt questioned, glancing at the field guide over the rim of his glass. “No loved ones in need of a final goodbye, I hope.”

Billingsley chuckled at that, reaching for the second drink and raising it in a modest toast. “I don’t have any loved ones to speak of—at least, not here on the island anyway.”

“Family still off living in Australia, I suppose?”

Gripping the crystalline glass tightly in one hand, Billingsley threw his head back and downed the drink in one go. Wiping the faint taste of rum from his bottom lip, he slammed the glass down on the counter with a self-satisfied grin.

“I’m a Kiwi, not an Aussie, though it’s understandable that a man such as yourself would have a hard time knowing the distinction.”

Van Pelt’s thick brows twitched, and yet his eyes betrayed a feeling of what might have been amusement. He didn’t bother to reply, choosing instead to take a leisurely sip of his rum and survey the handpicked militia that crowded the barroom. After Van Pelt finished his assessment, he reached for the leather bag that hung low at his side. Extracting a folded up piece of parchment, he set it on the counter before Billingsley.

“I trust this will be of service to you.”

Quirking one eyebrow, Billingsley cautiously took the paper in hand. Unfolding the delicate material as carefully as he could, the field guide’s mouth fell open at the sight that greeted him. It was an intricately-outlined map of Jumanji, bursting with color and detail that he had not been able to replicate in his own attempts at cartography.

“This is fantastic,” Billingsley exclaimed, trying to calm his bubbling excitement. “Where on Earth did you find this?”

“It was discovered in an abandoned bodega just south of Madrid. The owner of the building had an interest collecting rare papers and textiles before his death.”

Billingsley chose to ignore the sinister undertone to Van Pelt’s words. Careful not to brush the ink with an exposed fingertip, Billingsley refolded the map and set it aside, eyes still glued to the aged material.

“You’re right, this map will definitely help make the journey easier.”

“Good to hear it. Well then, I suppose we are ready to take our leave.”

As Van Pelt rose to his feet, so did all the other men that were at his command, each standing up in near perfect precision. Quickly moving to his feet as well, Billingsley reached for the map and gently tucked it into the inside pocket of his leather vest. As they exited the tavern, the sound of Van Pelt’s army marching through the streets nearly drowned out the playful cacophony of the Bazaar.

 

 

The first few days of travel were uneventful for Billingsley, much like any typical outing of his went. In the clammy heat of the jungle, their group pushed through the dense foliage, swinging at low-hanging vines with sharpened machetes. Toiling a trail that was wide enough for the two automobiles that carried their supplies was a challenge in and of itself.

When twilight crept over the canopy of trees, Van Pelt would snap orders at the band of mercenaries with little consideration for civility. Billingsley had decided to hunker down near the outside edge of camp, facing whatever direction was in accordance to where they would be departing the following morning. In the distance, he would watch the men prop up tarps on thick metal poles, slamming them into the wet dirt as the nighttime fog began to roll in.

It wasn’t a distrust for the men that kept Billingsley at a safe distance, although it was a factor, all things considered. The field guide had no intentions of encroaching upon the apparent togetherness of Van Pelt’s soldiers, nor did he think he particularly belonged among the hardened, venal men. Billingsley wasn’t entirely impuissant, but he knew that it was better for both parties if he kept a respectable distance.

This particular night, however, painted the sky an inky black, and a clash of thunder in the distance shook Billingsley from his tired stupor. Extending one hand, he watched as a single raindrop landed in the middle of his leather glove. Letting out a sigh of resignation, he turned toward his makeshift bed and reached for his unerected tent, wrestling with it’s flimsy edges as the rainfall grew more tumultuous.

Just as the storm began to pick up, Billingsley noted a glowing light approaching him in the distance. Desperately trying to keep his hat situated on his head, he squinted as the shrouded figure drew closer, holding a swinging glass lantern in one bare hand.

“The storm is going to be too much for you out here!” An unfamiliar voice shouted above the heavy rainfall. “It’d be best if you came with me for the time being!”

Billingsley glanced toward his pallet, now drenched by the continuous downpour from above. Forcing down the uneasy feeling in his gut, he ultimately decided he’d rather be dry than chance the elements. Throwing down the large tarpaulin sheet, he snagged his rucksack from beneath the crook of a nearby tree root and followed the stranger back toward the campsite.

Beneath one of the many canopies sat a firepit, crackling with life as a band of men huddled around it. As the pair approached, all sets of eyes immediately fell onto Billingsley, distrust and suspicion painted clearly on their faces. Forcing himself to exude an air of friendliness, Billingsley sat himself on a nearby crate, sighing in relief as the pelt of rain against his skin ceased.

The stranger who had accompanied him pulled back his large overcoat, revealing a ruddy face that was grizzled by a flame of facial hair. With a nod of thanks, Billingsley leaned forward and removed his gloves, rubbing the cold skin of his hands near the warm embers of the fire.

“So,” another stranger began, just a few spaces away from where Billingsley sat. “You’ve finally decided to mingle with us.”

Billingsley swallowed a spark of annoyance and turned to face the other man. The stranger had sharp, steely grey eyes that refracted the firelight with an icy intensity. A scar split the cupid’s bow of his lip, twisting up toward his right cheek in a shape similar to that of a lightning bolt.

“Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,” Billingsley replied, focusing his attention back to his chilled fingertips. With a wheezy huff of laughter, the man seemed to relax, resting his weight back against his palms.

“My name’s Fionn, and that arsehole over there is Edgar,” the bearded man interrupted, his accent slightly tinged with an Northern lilt. “I’d suggest ignoring him. He’s a real brute whenever it’s pouring down.”

Billingsley nodded in appreciation, catching the man’s hand in a shaking grip. “It’s a pleasure. I don’t suppose with a name like Fionn that you’d hail from the Emerald Isle?”

Fionn laughed, reaching for an abandoned pot that sat near the base of the fire. “You’d be correct. And you—you’re from below the equator, I’d imagine?”

“New Zealand. Auckland, more specifically.”

“Ah, must be nice. Would you care for some coffee? It tastes like shite.”

Billingsley broke out into a genuine smile and nodded, thankful for the offering of a warm drink. Fionn passed a tin cup his way, and Billingsley wrapped his hands around the heated metal with a shiver of pleasure. Before long, the feeling came back to his fingers, and Billingsley sucked down the bitter, gritty drink as fast as he could. Around the fire, the other men quietly whispered among themselves, eyes downcast as the rain continued to torrent around them.

“I wouldn’t worry about them too much,” the Irishman quietly remarked, leaning toward Billingsley with a slight grin. “They don’t have any reason to give you trouble.”

“I thank you for that piece of information, as well as saving me from this dreadful storm.”

“Oh, don’t thank me. It wasn’t my idea.”

Billingsley paused, confused as he squeezed rainwater from his hat. “It wasn’t?”

“No,” Fionn whispered, pouring a cup of coffee for himself. “It was Van Pelt’s. He ordered me to get you out of this storm. Makes sense, seeing as you’re our main navigator, and all.”

A warm rush of surprise flooded through Billingsley, and he quickly turned away from the other man, embarrassment causing his stomach to churn uncomfortably. Clearing his throat, Billingsley moved to a dry patch of ground beneath the canopy and set his rucksack beside him, desperate to fall asleep and forget about Van Pelt for as long as he possibly could.

 

 

By the following morning, they had packed up their tents and supplies before the sun had even crested over the crowded jungle trees. Rainwater still dribbled down from the leaves in a mock rainfall, and Billingsley was grateful that his slouch hat protected him from the incessant drips that soaked the cotton sleeves of his shirt.

As per usual (or what was becoming usual in the few days of travel so far), their breakfast consisted of undercooked rice and stale bread. It was hard to maintain enough sustenance for the thirty plus men, especially when energy was needed to traverse the rugged landscape. Billingsley was quickly becoming accustomed to the meager portions, though he knew he could stand to eat less and lose a few kilos in the process.

Scraping at the sparse rice grains with one hand, Billingsley extracted the map from within his vest with the other. Balancing the tin plate and the map proved more difficult than the field guide expected, and he eventually surrendered and set the slippery metal plate aside. Carefully unfolding the fragile parchment with delicate fingers, he nearly missed Van Pelt emerging from the furthermost tent about fifteen meters. As the archeologist scanned the clearing, he immediately caught sight of Billingsley and slowly marched across the dew-covered grass, coming to a stop just a few paces away.

“I trust you slept well last night?” Van Pelt asked, though his apparent provocation superseded the questioning tone. Billingsley pointedly didn’t meet the other man’s gaze, choosing instead to keep his eyes firmly locked on the paper before him.

“I slept fine, thank you.”

“I imagined the storm would have been too much without a proper shelter above your head,” Van Pelt replied, still sounding vaguely complacent.

Billingsley finally lowered the map to meet Van Pelt’s eyes. “I’ve been navigating these jungles for nearly a decade. I’ve seen my fair share of storms, several much worse than that drizzle last night.”

The grin that managed to overtake Van Pelt’s face was unnatural, though not wholly unpleasant. Billingsley knew that the other man took little offense to his words, and chewed the inside of his cheek in irritation. Hands poised at his hips, Van Pelt called for the men to finish packing the rest of their supplies, giving Billingsley a final glance out of the corner of his eye. Feeling a muscle twitch near his temple, Billingsley happily buried himself in the map once more.

 

 

Two weeks had passed, and the journey had gone more smoothly than Billingsley had initially expected. The work had been arduous, and the constant ache between the field guide’s shoulders persisted with every chop and hack at the thick jungle bush. However, they had been fortunate enough to abstain from any real dilemmas, which pleased Billingsley greatly. It seemed as if luck had taken their side for the duration of the mission.

The midday sun pierced through the ceiling of fronds above like angry daggers. The back of Billingsley’s neck was flushed with sweat, each crack of sunlight turning the delicate skin red. Less than half a kilometer away, a sluggish river promised relief from the unbearable humidity of the landscape.

Upon their arrival, Billingsley had been one of the first men to scope out the area, gripping his dull machete by the hilt. Thankfully, the lack of semi-aquatic mammals nearby put him at ease, and within half an hour they had settled in for a short respite. Wetting a spare handkerchief, Billingsley swept the soaked cloth along his nape, sighing in relief as the burning skin turned cool beneath it.

Just a few paces to his left, a man crouched beside the bank of the river—though man was more of a misnomer. The soldier looked as if he were barely a day over eighteen, thin as a beanstalk and bonier than Billingsley had ever seen on a living human being. He swiped a canteen along the water, eyes downcast toward the river’s gentle pull.

A flicker of movement in the distance caught Billingsley’s eye. Stretching to his full height, he scanned along the river’s surface, eyes widening in horror as a dark mass sped toward them right below the surface.

“Christ, it’s a—!”

Before Billingsley could finish, the mercenary let out a screech as the dark creature burst forth from beneath the water, its gaping jaws snapping around his forearm. Flinging himself forward, the field guide extracted his machete and desperately shoved the blade down, one arm wrapping itself around the man’s torso. The animal twisted to the side with a murderous rage, and the knife glanced off it’s tough skin, inflicting little damage. Desperately trying to keep hold of the other man, Billingsley pulled with as much strength as he could muster, trying to drown out the man’s bloodcurdling screams of pain.

Several rounds of gunfire whizzed by, and suddenly Billingsley was falling back with the other man in tow, colliding against the earth with so much force that he couldn’t breathe. The rush of adrenaline forced him to waste no time for recovery, and he shuffled back with a newfound strength, tugging the near-unconscious man along with him. A chill ran down his spine as a wet heat spilled out along the dirt, staining the ground a murky red.

Along the riverbank sat the leaking corpse of a crocodile, several large bullet holes puncturing it’s olive-colored skin. Deciding to put as much distance as he could between himself and the creature, Billingsley forced himself to stand, pointedly ignoring the anguished cry the other man let out at the sudden change in position.

Blood was leaking heavily from what Billingsley presumed was the wrist of the man’s arm, and a wave of nausea passed over him so strongly that his vision blurred. The sickness passed as quickly as it had come, and Billingsley felt another set of hands reaching for the man in his grasp. Blindly moving forward in an attempt to stay with the injured man, Billingsley nearly tripped over his own feet, still-shaking.

A hand at his shoulder forced him to stop moving, and after a few quick blinks, the field guide’s vision turned clear. The pressure of the stranger’s hold near his collarbone remained, and Billingsley turned his gaze from the gloved hand to the person it was attached to.

Unsurprisingly, the hardened façade of Van Pelt met him with furrowed brows, stonily still and unblinking. After a few awkward moments of shared eye contact, he removed his grip and turned to fully face Billingsley.

“You aren’t hurt.”

The statement sent another wave of confusion through Billingsley. Looking down at his clothes, he noted the obvious splatters of blood against his left pant leg, mixed along with wet patches of mud. Glancing back toward Van Pelt, he gave him a tired nod of assurance.

“I’m alright, although my trousers are certainly worse for wear.”

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Van Pelt took a step back, moving his dark eyes to the scene behind the field guide. With newfound awareness, Billingsley noted that his very own slouch hat was grasped firmly in the man’s right hand. Bringing a hand up to his temple, he patted his head and noted that he was indeed lacking his usual headgear.

“I was wondering why my head felt lighter than usual,” Billingsley muttered, feeling the slightest smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Van Pelt, seemingly startled from his deep reverie, quickly extended his hand and deliberately didn’t meet the other man’s eyes. Billingsley whispered a quick word of thanks, taking his hat in hand and firmly setting it upon his head.

Turning back around to face the carnage, Billingsley felt his stomach tighten at the sight of the animal’s corpse, belly-up and already baking in the sunlight. It was much smaller than he had initially thought, around a meter-and-a-half in length. Van Pelt slowly stalked toward the creature, one hand fastened to the holster at his belt. After a few careful moments of consideration, he pulled back, his upper lip curled in displeasure.

“It’s a female. Probably less than three years old.”

Billingsley took a few steps forward himself, muscles suddenly feeling stiff as the adrenaline rush wore off. “I assumed she was still a juvenile at that size.”

Van Pelt took one final glance at the crocodile’s corpse before turning away, the angry furrow of his brow only growing deeper as he was lost in thought. Billingsley thought it was wise to not question his shift in mood, deciding instead to think of a way to rid himself of his stained trousers.

“I’m going to go check on the kid. I suggest that tonight we camp further downriver, and not so close to the shore.”

Van Pelt nodded, unspeaking as he continued to stare a hole in the ground. With a deep breath to calm his rattled nerves, Billingsley staggered over to their makeshift camp, suddenly desperate for a large glass of whiskey.

 

 

“...can’t be serious.”

Billingsley’s eyes fluttered open. The crack of twigs nearby caused the man to momentarily seize, hands clutching his threadbare blanket in surprise.

“I’m telling you the truth. And keep your voice down! You’re going to...”

The whispers that traveled through the open flap of the field guide’s tent grew faint. Immediately rising to his knees, Billingsley crawled on all fours and paused near the entrance, peeking through the thin sliver that gave way to the outside world. A dwindling campfire burned just a few meters away, and Billingsley watched as two men took a seat on a nearby crate. Pressing his ear to the tarpaulin wall, the field guide focused on their barely-audible exchange.

“You really think he’s—like that?” The man on the right questioned, his silhouette shifting uncomfortably against the firelight.

“I’m positive. You ever hear of that archeologist fella? What’s his name... Burnstone?”

“You mean Bravestone? Yeah, I’ve heard of him. What’s he got to do with it?”

Both men sat in silence as the mercenary on the left quickly looked around, making sure they were alone. Moving back into the shadows of his tent, Billingsley strained to hear them as his heart pounded noisily in his chest.

“Bravestone and Van Pelt—they were partners. You know, traveling all over the world and stuff. But I heard from Hewitt that they were _more_ than just partners.”

Billingsley’s eyes widened. He felt the blood run cold in his veins.

“I don’t believe it. You think a guy like Van Pelt is a homosexual?”

“I’d believe it. He’s got island blood in him.”

Immediately quaking with fury, Billingsley forced himself to continue eavesdropping, digging his fingers into the solid muscle at his thighs.

“I never would’ve expected that from a guy like Van Pelt, though. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to find out, seeing as Bravestone isn’t around no more. Guess they must’ve broke up.”

The two men snickered, no longer attempting to keep quiet in the dead silence of night. Sliding away from the opening to his tent, Billingsley laid back onto his pallet and stared at the tarp ceiling, a brew of anger and fear taking place in his gut.

Bravestone and Van Pelt. Together.

The faded memories of their pictures in the newspaper came to mind. The two men had obviously been close, clutching each other in half-hugs that often made them look like conjoined twins. Billingsley felt his heart skip a beat, the gears in his brain turning as he mulled over the theory.

It made all too much sense. The cold disposition that Van Pelt exuded, and his drastic change in appearance. Bravestone had disappeared from the other man’s life, and from what Billingsley had garnered, it wasn’t on pleasant terms. Blinking rapidly in the darkness, he continued to process the idea, turning it over and over again in his mind. Forcing his eyelids shut, Billingsley attempted to not overthink it, feeling a strange sense of guilt as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

 

II. _Oh, baby you're the only thing in this whole world  
That's pure and good and right_

-

In the end, surprisingly, Van Pelt ended up making the first move.

Billingsley had lead the troop of mercenaries across the nearest crest of the mountains that spanned out over the center of the island. A valley rested just below the peak, and the lush vegetation that crowded the area brought much-needed relief from the blistering heat of the sun above. Their descent into the valley had ended with a short one-day respite to recuperate, and Billingsley found himself enjoying the camaraderie of the men as they chugged down bottles of cheap whiskey. The inebriated stupor of the group was thoroughly entertaining to watch, and the field guide couldn’t withhold a smile as he hummed along to the songs they drunkenly wailed into the night.

Rising from his seat nearby the roaring bonfire, Billingsley was ready to turn in for the night when he noticed Van Pelt observing the group from a distance. The caterwauling of the men hadn’t ceased, and Van Pelt stood with an intense look of displeasure on his face. Feeling slightly more relaxed thanks to a few generous sips of alcohol, Billingsley approached the man and paused a meter or so away, leaning against a crooked tree.

“Don’t feel like joining in on the festivities?” Billingsley questioned, eyeing the uninhibited mob of men as they danced around the fire.

“Their excitement is misplaced,” Van Pelt murmured, thick eyebrows drawing together as his upper lip curled. “There is no cause for celebration until the Jewel is found.”

Billingsley rolled his eyes at his words, moving slightly closer to the other man. “They’re just enjoying the fact that they don’t have to hike twenty kilometers down a mountain tomorrow. I say their cause is justified.”

Van Pelt didn’t respond, finally turning his gaze on Billingsley with an indecipherable expression. After a moment of silent contemplation, he jerked his head towards the line of tents in the distance. Feeling a trill of anxiety travel down his spine, Billingsley followed Van Pelt as the other man lead him through the maze of tarpaulin dwellings.

Coming to a stop outside Van Pelt’s own tent, Billingsley felt his eyes grow wide at the sight of the enormous structure. The luxury of the shelter was apparent, and the field guide tried to avoid staring at Van Pelt as he opened the front flap and allowed him entrance.

Van Pelt’s quarters were not quite what Billingsley had expected. An antique Agra rug was laid out in the center of the tent, an oblong wooden desk resting beside it. In the far right corner, a bed that stood on four wooden legs was crowded by a pile of books. Billingsley noted that piles upon piles of textbooks and documents littered the ground and all available surfaces. Pushing past him, Van Pelt took a seat on the available wooden chair behind the desk, rifling through the messy drawers. Deciding that he was also too tired to remain standing, Billingsley sat himself on an overturned crate, surprisingly not swamped by a stack of books.

Once Van Pet had found what he was looking for, he slammed a bottle of rum on top of the sturdy desk. Two small metal mugs joined it, and Van Pelt leaned back in his chair as he poured a generous amount into each cup, still unreadable as ever as he handed one to Billingsley.

“I see you have a preference for rum,” the field guide observed, eyeing the dark liquid.

“My mother was Cuban,” Van Pelt replied, immediately downing his entire drink in one go. Wiping his lips with a gloved hand, he stared down at the crystalline bottle, a mournful expression on his face. “I was born there.”

Billingsley was shocked by the sudden disclosure of personal information Van Pelt presented him. The man had gone glassy-eyed as he continued to stare at the bottle of alcohol, gloved hands squeezing the malleable metal cup that rested in his grip.

“I guess we have one thing in common, then. We’re both island-dwellers,” Billingsley murmured, finally taking a sip of rum himself.

Van Pelt snapped his gaze back towards Billingsley, a frustrated look furrowing his brow even deeper. Reaching for the bottle, he didn’t waste time in pouring himself another drink, instead taking a sip of liquid straight from the source.

“And your father? Where was he from?” Billingsley questioned, eyes glued to the bottle between the man’s hands as he continued to swivel the liquid.

“Belgium. He was also an explorer. Lived in the Congo for nearly a decade while my mother worked herself to death to feed us scraps.”

Billingsley couldn’t break his stare, watching Van Pelt as the man sank into his chair. The picture of avolition before him was both shocking and disconcerting. Billingsley immediately rose from his seat and sauntered over to the other man, leaning against the wooden desk.

“My father died when I was very young,” he announced, glancing at Van Pelt from the corner of his eye. “My mother and older sisters raised me. I understand what it’s like.”

Van Pelt didn’t offer any words in response. Gazing up at Billingsley through half-lidded eyes, he craned his neck back and deliberately looked him over, intrigue masking his indifference.

“How many people did you kill during the War?” Van Pelt questioned, shifting in his seat.

“Too many to count,” the field guide replied, now gazing directly into the depths of Van Pelt’s eyes. Even in the dim candlelight of the tent his eyes remained black, emotionless.

“And how did it feel, Billingsley, knowing you took the lives of men with families?”

Billingsley wet his lips. Van Pelt’s unblinking stare pinned him down, and the field guide shifted ever closer, blood rushing warmly through his veins.

“Seeing as we’ve become somewhat acquainted with one another, I’ll permit you call me Nigel from here on out, Professor.”

Van Pelt glowered at the lack of response from the field guide. Rising from his chair, he abandoned the bottle of alcohol on the desk and pressed into Billingsley’s space, shoulders tense as he towered above him. Billingsley silently watched the muscles twitch at his jaw, the gleam of anger in his eyes now vividly apparent.

“I don’t want your sympathy, _Nigel_. Your only purpose on this mission is to bring me to the Jewel, and it would be wise not to stray from that path.”

The slightly earthy scent of the other man intermingled with the fruity scent on rum on his breath. Billingsley mulled over his next few words, looking over Van Pelt’s face as he gripped the edge of the desk.

“I somehow doubt that’s the only reason why I’m here,” the field guide whispered, leaning forward so their faces were only a few scant centimeters apart. Van Pelt’s eyes locked onto Nigel’s lips, throat working around a silent swallow.

“You’re delusional,” Van Pelt growled, barely audible as Billingsley shifted his position alongside the wooden frame. His right leg brushed against Van Pelt’s thigh, and the shiver that traveled down his spine was almost violent in its intensity.

“You shouldn’t be the one to talk,” Billingsley replied, daring himself not to blink.

Van Pelt remained silent as he looked over the other man, heated eyes sending a wave of arousal through Billingsley. The heaves of Van Pelt’s chest as he took in air made the tendons in his neck stiffen, and Billingsley shifted further back until he was comfortably sat along the edge of the desk, open and inviting.

In the matter of a second, Van Pelt crowded Billingsley against the wooden table, gripping at his hips with gloved fingers. Billingsley had no time to react to the sudden brush of teeth and tongue against his neck. Letting out a broken moan, he immediately wrapped his arms around Van Pelt’s shoulders, hooking a leg around his hip as he sought friction.

The sudden nervous disposition of the other man was apparent by the clumsiness of his mouth against Billingsley’s skin. Pulling back, Van Pelt looked affronted as Billingsley held him at arm’s length, already breathing heavy.

“Do you want to...?”

Van Pelt let out a sound of affirmation, nodding with clarity as he continued to brush a thumb against the side of the other man’s hip.

“Let me,” Billingsley murmured, feeling the hard line of Van Pelt’s cock against his thigh. Van Pelt’s eyes followed Billingsley as he reached for his belt, immediately undoing the silver buckle with deft fingers. Pulling the strap of leather free, he watched Van Pelt’s entire body go rigid as he brushed a hand against his clothed erection.

Billingsley sucked in a breath as he slowly unzipped the other man’s trousers, pulling the material apart and sliding his palm into the confines of Van Pelt’s briefs. Freeing his erection from the cotton material, Billingsley tried not to stare at the barely-concealed pleasure on Van Pelt’s face, his eyes clenched tightly shut.

Making quick work of his gloves, Billingsley threw them aside and immediately wrapped his fist around the head of Van Pelt’s already-leaking cock. It wasn’t surprising that the other man was well-endowed, more thick than any man Billingsley had ever been with. Feeling his own cock twitch at the sight, Billingsley palmed himself through his trousers, relishing the steady pressure.

Suddenly coming back to his senses, Van Pelt growled as Billingsley slowly dragged his fist down the length of his cock, the dry friction more satisfying thanks to the callouses on Billingsley’s fingers. Reaching for the other man, Van Pelt moved closer and threaded his fingers through the hair at Billingsley’s nape, tightening them around the auburn strands.

“You’ve done this before,” Van Pelt grunted between clenched teeth. “I heard rumors about you in the Bazaar—some very unsavory nicknames were brought up.”

Billingsley flushed at the man’s words, tugging forcefully on his cock and drawing out a guttural groan in turn.

“I’ve had my fair share of fun over the years,” Billingsley gasped in reply, feeling the slight sting of Van Pelt’s hand pulling at his scalp. Releasing his grip, he quickly spat into his hand and wrapped his fingers back around Van Pelt’s length, relishing the pained sound the other man made in response.

“You’re proud of that fact, aren't you?” Van Pelt questioned, tugging Billingsley closer to him and forcing him to meet his eyes. The hat on his head was now askew, and Van Pelt quickly tossed it to the ground while Billingsley quickened his pace.

“It makes this experience all the more enjoyable, in my opinion.”

Van Pelt let out another hiss, moving his gaze to Billingsley’s hand as he dragged it up and down the length of his cock. Leaning forward, his forehead connected with the field guide’s own as he began to thrust his hips into the slick heat of the other man’s fist, every muscle taut with arousal.

Billingsley felt the slight wetness leaking from his own cock inside the confines of his trousers, letting out a dissatisfied groan at the lack of friction he needed. Van Pelt seemed to notice his struggle, a humorless grin stretching across his face as he suddenly grabbed Billingsley by the hips. Pushing him further along the desk, Billingsley gasped as the other man immediately rucked his trousers down, not even bothering to loosen his belt. After a few seconds of heated scrabbling, Van Pelt managed to free Billingsley’s cock, the smooth leather of his glove causing Billingsley’s head to fall back against the wood.

“ _Christ_ —ah, that feels—“

Van Pelt didn’t let him finish his sentence, grinding his cock against Billingsley’s abdomen and rendering his speechless. Slowly swiping his gloved hands over Billingsley’s hips, he held the smaller man in a vice-like grip and continued thrusting against him, his cock glancing against the field guide’s own.

Billingsley immediately gasped as the wet heat of Van Pelt’s cock continued to slide against him. Gripping the other man’s shoulders as best as he could, Billingsley closed his eyes and thrust up against Van Pelt’s hips, panting heavily at the effort.

With a growl, Van Pelt’s hold on him tightened, and he began to rut against Billingsley with a distinct lack of control. His lips met the spanse of Billingsley’s neck once more, though he was much more coordinated this time around as he sucked the skin near his pulse point. Billingsley couldn’t withhold a loud moan at the scrape of Van Pelt’s teeth against him, his tongue lapping the bruised skin in languid strokes.

The release that had begun to coil in his gut was now stretched so tautly that Billingsley wanted to cry. Meeting Van Pelt’s thrusts with feverish intensity, he watched through lidded eyes as Van Pelt’s pace began to stutter. In the matter of three frenzied snaps of his hips, Van Pelt let out low groan, emptying himself against the dip of Billingsley’s abdomen.

The wet heat of his release had Billingsley desperately fisting his own cock, lasting only a few solid strokes. Letting out a strangled gasp, he came with an unforeseen intensity, spilling out over his shaking hand. Van Pelt pulled back and watched as the other man finished beneath him, his high-pitched keens piercing the quiet night air.

They both remained frozen in the same position of post-orgasmic bliss, panting with exertion. Billingsley could feel the other man’s cock softening against his hip, and he opened his eyes, surprised to find Van Pelt staring at him from only a short distance away. Quickly glancing behind him, Billingsley stared at the entrance of the tent, mouth dry and ears ringing.

“That was fun,” he offered, voice shaking slightly as he continued to take in air. Van Pelt twitched at his words, immediately pulling back so he no longer crushed Billingsley against the desk. Watching him with careful eyes, Billingsley yanked his trousers back up around him, ignoring the gross slide of both his and Van Pelt’s releases against the cloth.

As he collected his abandoned articles of clothing, Van Pelt reached for his leather belt that laid forgotten on the ground. He avoided Billingsley’s eyes as he fixed himself up, turning to face the other man only once the clamp of his belt buckle fell into place.

Van Pelt made no effort to hide his interest in the bruises at Billingsley’s neck. Moving back into the other man’s space, he dragged a gloved finger across the darkened skin, watching Billingsley as he stiffened at the unexpected contact. Curiously meeting Van Pelt’s gaze, Billingsley could only guess what was going through the other man’s mind.

After Van Pelt finished observing the marks on Billingsley’s skin, he turned around and opened a forgotten suitcase resting alongside the desk. Searching through it with deft fingers, he extracted a worn yellow scarf from the confines of the case. Billingsley silently watched as Van Pelt held it before him, the cloth unraveling in his grasp.

“Use this to hide the bruises,” he murmured, still avoiding Billingsley’s gaze. The other man flushed with flattered embarrassment, staring at the threadbare cloth with equal parts curiosity and uncertainty. Taking the scarf in hand, Billingsley slowly wrapped the yellow material around his neck, tying the ends of the kerchief so it rested snugly against his adam’s apple.

“Thank you,” Billingsley offered once he adjusted the scarf into a more comfortable position. Van Pelt only grunted in response, his dark eyes latched onto the yellow cloth at the other man’s throat. With a guarded expression, Van Pelt stepped to the side, finally permitting the other man exit.

Billingsley didn’t offer any more words before he set his hat back on his head and brushed past Van Pelt. Pausing at the entrance of the tent, he glanced over his shoulder and met Van Pelt’s dark gaze, stomach churning at the tumultuous expression on his face. With a final exhale, Billingsley pushed past the tarpaulin barrier and into the cool night air, relishing the gentle breeze against his heated skin.

 

 

Van Pelt had done a fantastic job avoiding Billingsley in the days following the incident. The field guide had made no real attempts at conversation with the other man, and yet Van Pelt seemed to avoid him like the plague. Billingsley had chalked it up to Van Pelt trying to save whatever dignity he had, and happily allowed the man to silently brood at him from a distance.

In the meantime, Billingsley decided to get to know the few mercenaries that willingly associated with him. Fionn had welcomed Billingsley into his little group, and talked the field guide’s ear off about his life back home in Ireland. Billingsley listened to his spiels with rapt attention, and soon found himself enjoying the man’s ramblings over breakfast.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Nigel,” Fionn stated over a helping of gruel, “You’d love Éire. The green pastures, the rocky cliffs of Moher... everything about her exudes beauty.”

Billingsley smiled, poking at his own lump of food with a rusted fork. “I feel the very same way about New Zealand. It’s been so long since I’ve set foot on her shores, I often feel like I’m forgetting what she looks like.”

Fionn smiled, downing a generous portion of the slop. “Don’t feel bad, it happens to the best of us. I’m sure you’ll be able to visit her again someday.”

With a halfhearted nod, Billingsley stared off into the distant jungle trees. In more ways than one, the wilderness of Jumanji did share some similarities with the bush of his native homeland. Billingsley closed his eyes as he attempted to paint a picture of the white peaks of Ruapehu in his mind. When he cracked open his eyelids, he noticed Van Pelt staring solemnly at him from a distance, his thick brows furrowed in deep thought.

Billingsley locked eyes with the other man, a slight trill shooting down his spine as Van Pelt didn’t look away. Feeling a bit courageous, the field guide set aside his untouched dish and slowly sauntered over, pretending to partake in the scenery until he stopped a meter or so away from the other man.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” Billingsley started, eyes wandering around the vicinity of the camp.

Van Pelt let out a derisive snort, staring at the field guide from the corner of his eyes. “You’d better have a good reason for interrupting my peace and quiet, Nigel.”

Billingsley's lip twitched slightly at the usage of his name, and he moved incrementally closer with a subdued grin. “No reason in particular. Maybe you can tell me why you’ve been avoiding me instead.”

Van Pelt’s entire body went rigid, and an immediate look of irritation contorted his features.

“You think too highly of yourself,” he growled, pointedly looking away as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Perhaps,” Billingsley murmured in reply. “I’m not offended, Professor. I’m enjoying getting to know the men a bit better—something I’d expect you could benefit from yourself.”

With a halfhearted grunt, Van Pelt eyed the group of mercenaries that Billingsley had previously been eating breakfast with. A dark expression quickly took hold of him, and a muscle twitched suspiciously at his temple. Billingsley’s eyes widened at the anger that openly brewed on Van Pelt’s face, and he leaned towards the other man, hiding a self-satisfied grin.

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

Billingsley was nearly knocked to the ground as the other man forcefully grabbed him by elbow, dragging him a few meters back and behind the privacy of a nearby tree. Stomach suddenly bubbling with a mixture of fear and excitement, Billingsley carefully met Van Pelt’s narrowed eyes as the man held him in his bruising grip.

“I have half a mind to shut you up permanently,” Van Pelt snarled, his upper lip curling over surprisingly white teeth. His rage was hardly restrained, the protruding muscles at his neck flexing with every heaving intake of air.

“You could do that, but it wouldn’t be as fun for either of us in the end,” Billingsley cooed, leaning into Van Pelt’s space. “I think you’d miss my unique charm.”

The man’s gaze flickered from Billingsley’s eyes to his lips, his expression softening as he stared. With a slow exhale, the field guide pressed closer to Van Pelt until their lips were only mere centimeters apart.

Van Pelt took on Billingsley’s innocent expression, eyes narrowed as he internally debated his response. Releasing his now-lax grip on the other man’s elbow, Van Pelt raised his gloved hand and gently took Billingsley’s chin in his grasp. Perplexed by the other man’s actions, Billingsley remained silent as Van Pelt stared at him, dark eyes searching for something he wasn’t sure of.

Just as quickly as he had initiated the contact, Van Pelt removed his hand and took an immediate step back. Turning on his heel, he stalked out into the gleaming brilliance of daybreak, not bothering for the other man to follow. Billingsley felt a twinge of disappointment at the sight of Van Pelt’s departure, immediately adjusting his hat and trying to bury his confusing emotions.

 

 

Nigel Billingsley had only experienced one serious relationship in his lifetime. Before he had left for the infantry, he had almost been engaged to a beautiful woman two years his senior. She had golden hair and striking green eyes, and was the first person he had lost his virginity to at the ripe age of eighteen. They often fooled around in her family’s barn, and Billingsley nearly proposed to her the first time she had ever straddled his hips.

Unbeknownst to him, the War would change Billingsley. On the evening before he left for the infantry, she had wept and begged him to reconsider his choice, pressing him into the soft down of her mattress. He had whispered sweet nothings in her ear to calm her, and promised to return with a ring and a future for the both of them to share.

Billingsley hadn’t seen since that night.

When all was said and done, Billingsley knew that he and relationships didn’t mix. In the years following his decision to not return back home, he had only been physically intimate with five people, three of which he didn’t remember on account of being exceptionally drunk. And yet, somehow, word got around the little island that Billingsley had a flare for promiscuity. In spite of the misconceptions, the field guide didn’t take much offense to the rumors.

His first encounter with another man had been only a month after he had settled into his new home on Jumanji. The man had been one of the few people to actively take interest in Billingsley’s wellbeing. He still remembered the heat of another man’s skin against his for the first time, how different it was from the soft planes of his former lover. The man had been tall and broad, his skin dark and hair long. Billingsley and the other man had been intimate too many times to count over the span of three days, and he still glowed at the memory of the encounter.

In all honesty, Billingsley wasn’t sure why he was so actively drawn to Van Pelt, or why the other man was interested in him either. He was quite aware of the other man’s attractiveness, his black eyes and black hair a stark contrast to Billingsley’s own appearance. The field guide even found his caterpillar-like brows endearing, as well as complimentary to the perpetual look of discontent Van Pelt exhibited at all times.

With a twinge of guilt, he thought back to the idea of Van Pelt and Bravestone separating on unfortunate terms. Billingsley had half a mind to question the man about the whole affair, but decided he rather liked being alive for the time being. It wasn’t any concern of his, regardless of whatever the nature of his relationship with Van Pelt was.

Billingsley was not a jealous lover.

 

 

An entire week had passed before Van Pelt invited the field guide back into the relative warmth of his tent. Under the guise of offering Billingsley a drink, the man had stiffly allowed him entrance with a regretful expression on his face. Feeling a sliver of sympathy for Van Pelt, Billingsley pointedly took a seat in the only other chair and poured out two small cups of alcohol.

Van Pelt’s quarters suspiciously looked cleaner than Billingsley remembered, though he deliberately didn’t mention it out loud. The man was currently hunched in his own seat on the other side of the desk, feigning disinterest at the field guide’s presence. After taking a tepid sip from his cup, Billingsley looked over at Van Pelt, desperate to end the palpable awkwardness in the air.

“Why are you so interested in finding the Jewel of Jumanji, if I may ask?”

The other man startled at Billingsley’s question. Finally meeting his eyes, Van Pelt straightened up and slowly worked his drink, moving his gaze to the other man when he finished.

“The legends about the Jewel... I’ve heard them countless times over the course of my life. The stories say it holds powers unimaginable to the human mind.”

“And you believe it?”

Van Pelt set his cup down, a distant look of contemplation softening his features.

“I believe the Jewel exists. That’s all that matters to me.”

“And if it doesn’t exist—if it proves to be just a legend. What will you do then?”

The other man remained silent as he stared at Billingsley through thick lashes. With an exiguous cock of his head to the side, Van Pelt leaned forward and rested his elbows against the stained wood of his desk.

“The scarf compliments you,” he murmured after a moment, eyeing the yellow material wrapped loosely around Billingsley’s neck. Turning slightly pink at the other man’s words, the field guide ran a gentle hand over the cotton scarf.

“It does look good on me, though I no longer have any bruises to hide. It’s a shame, really.”

It was now Van Pelt’s turn to blush, immediately looked away and avoiding the salacious smile Billingsley sent his way. Reaching for his nearby journal, he continued to ignore the other man with an impenetrable resolve.

Billingsley took another small sip of his own drink as he watched Van Pelt brood. With one booted foot, he gently knocked the outsole against Van Pelt’s shin, relishing the immediate reaction he had at the unexpected contact. The other man glared at Billingsley with a newfound fervor, his upper lip curling in disdain despite the fact that he did not pull away.

“What do you want from me, Nigel?” Van Pelt questioned, voice barely above a whisper. "Your incessant need for acknowledgment is maddening."

“I don’t know,” Billingsley quipped, staring back at the other man. “You’re the one who invited me here in the first place.”

Van Pelt didn’t respond, his leg just barely twitching against Billingsley’s foot. Shifting slightly in his seat, he turned his gaze back towards the other man, expression neutral as he contemplated a response.

“I’m not sure why you’ve decided to take an interest in me.”

The field guide couldn’t mask the look of surprise that passed over his face. Blinking rapidly as he processed the other man’s words, he swallowed a viscous patch of saliva at the back of his throat, hands tightening into fists.

“If I misinterpreted your own interest, Professor, I apologize.”

Van Pelt snapped his gaze up to meet Billingsley’s own, a strange look of penitence on his face.

“You didn’t misinterpret anything that I didn’t make clear myself,” the man confessed, eyes darting around the tent before reluctantly settling on the field guide.

“That’s good to know,” Billingsley replied, his cheeks growing warmer under the scrutiny of Van Pelt’s stare. “I honestly have no real answer for you. As far as I see it, the jungle is a lonely place. It’s nice to have some intimacy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That seems like a very coy answer,” Van Pelt growled, leaning forward in his seat. “One that’s entirely too modest for the likes of you.”

“Maybe. What would you wish for me to say instead—that I find your feral masculinity alluring? Because I do.”

Van Pelt’s lip twitched, and the faint sound of his gloved hands squeezing together made Billingsley break out into a nearly imperceptible smile. Setting his arms on Van Pelt’s desk, he leaned closer toward the other man.

“Do you regret what happened between us?” Billingsley interrogated, his voice taking on a more serious tone as he steepled his hands beneath his chin. The other man appeared taken aback by the question, lips parting but for a moment as he watched the field guide through dark lashes. After a few seconds of silent observation, Van Pelt shook his head.

“I have no regrets about what occurred.”

“And neither do I.”

The silence that filled the tent was deafening as the two men stared at each other, mirroring expressions of reserved suspicion. Van Pelt set his half-empty cup down on the desk as he continued to eye Billingsley, a more succinct look of thoughtfulness overtaking him. Billingsley watched as Van Pelt swallowed thickly, staring straight into his eyes with the same dark potency he always held.

“Then... are you willing to try it again?” Van Pelt questioned, his deep voice just barely brushing past Billingsley’s ears.

An immediate rush of heat flooded through Billingsley, burning his skin beneath the intensity of the other man’s gaze. As the blood began to pool between his legs, he slowly eased into Van Pelt’s space, gazing at the man with hooded eyes.

“I’d be more than willing, Professor.”

 

 

III.  _And_ _I_ _know_ _that_ _I'm_ _damned_ _if_ _I_ _never_ _get_ _out_  
 _And_ _maybe_ _I'm_ _damned_ _if_ _I_ _do_  
 _But_ _with_ _every_ _other_ _beat_ _I've_ _got_ _left_ _in_ _my_ _heart_  
 _You_ _know_ _I'd_ _rather_ _be_ _damned_ _with_ _you_

-

Their arrangement was pragmatic, if nothing else.

Billingsley had allowed himself to weigh the possible negative outcomes of their continued coupling, but had unfortunately been cut short of rationally thinking it over by Van Pelt’s hand on his cock. It had taken them a surprisingly short amount of time to free themselves of the barriers of clothing between them, and Billingsley thought he saw stars when Van Pelt dragged his orgasm out of him not five minutes later.

The days were beginning to blend together in a ritualistic sort of way. Billingsley had taken to remaining relatively distant from Van Pelt while they traversed the island during the day, only initiating contact with the other man after the other mercenaries had fallen asleep. The very next day, Van Pelt didn’t hesitate to invite Billingsley back into his quarters for the second time that week.

It had started off awkward, though Billingsley had been well aware of that possibility. Van Pelt continued to brood whenever they were together, though they had taken to long talks to take the edge off before touching each other. All in all, the arrangement wasn’t bad. Van Pelt had a firm grip and a penchant for leaving bruises on Billingsley’s neck, and the field guide happily wore his yellow scarf to hide most of the other man’s marks.

Their intimacy was purely physical, and Billingsley was more than fine with that.

As per their agreement, both men steered clear each other’s presence as they meandered about the camp the very next morning. When all their supplies were packed and the men ready for travel, Billingsley extracted the map and set off to lead the band of mercenaries, walking just a few paces in front of Van Pelt. The unyielding presence of the other man’s gaze against his back was both comforting and jarring as they tore a path through the dense jungle trees.

After they had descended down the steep mountain slope, the ring of massifs that surrounded them were visible at the bottom of the flat-bottomed basin. They seemed to stretch on endlessly, and Billingsley had to pause as he took in the sight, awed by the sheer size of the valley before them.

The field guide could feel Van Pelt only a few steps behind him. Turning to face the other man, Billingsley unfolded the map once more.

“If the Jaguar Shrine is anywhere, it’s going to be here. There’s a lot of ground to cover, so I suggest we keep moving.”

Van Pelt nodded, one gloved hand poised at his hip. Barking orders at the band of men behind him, he watched Billingsley extract his machete and hack at the thick foliage before them. After a few hearty wacks, the tangle of vines gave way to a natural path that split the greenery underfoot.

Billingsley had never been able to adjust to the humid jungle air in his many years of field work. As they pressed further into the damp heat, he felt the sweat pool in the small of his back, only intensified by the exertion he put forth into toiling a wider path. His arms began to shake as he continuously swung his machete through the air, gritting his teeth as the vines fell to the jungle floor.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caused Billingsley to falter, and he slowly turned his head to the side as a splash of gold crossed his path. Only twenty or so meters in the distance, a mass of dark spots and orange fur caused him to freeze, one hand immediately reaching for the holster at his side.

The jaguar crouched half-hidden behind a fern, it’s protruding shoulders swaying as it flexed it’s front legs. Sucking in a silent breath, Billingsley took a few steps back, bumping into Van Pelt as the other man immediately sensed the field guide’s fear.

Everyone within the vicinity of the animal grew quiet as they watched Van Pelt push himself in front of Billingsley. His large overcoat swayed as he extracted his pistol, slamming the hammer back as he eyed the jaguar with unwavering resolve.

The staring contest between Van Pelt and the animal seemed to stretch on for ages, and Billingsley could feel the sweat beading at his forehead as he watched the jaguar take a cautionary step forward. Van Pelt made no move to raise his weapon, and Billingsley couldn’t believe his eyes as the animal immediately froze, it’s ears quirking as if it sensed something unseen.

In the matter of a few seconds, the jaguar turned around and disappeared into the dark green bushes, it’s tail lazily flicking a single leaf as it left. Heart pounding as if it were about to burst from his chest, Billingsley let out an audible sigh, his body slouching as he released all the tension in his shoulders.

“That was lucky,” he remarked as the rest of the mercenaries quickly huddled closed together, eyes still trained on the spot the jaguar had disappeared from.

“You were right,” Van Pelt interceded, not looking at Billingsley as he shoved his pistol back into the holster as his belt. “If the shrine is anywhere, it’s here. We’re getting close. I can feel it.”

Billingsley stared at the other man, the gleam of excitement in Van Pelt’s eyes causing his innards to twist. Moving forward on unsteady legs, he called for the nearest group of men to help him cut down a swath of bushes, trying to ignore the now uncomfortable pain that clawed at his stomach.

 

 

Thanks to the unprecedented scare earlier in the day, Van Pelt had doubled the amount of guards to stand watch when night rolled in over the jungle trees. The tents were grouped more tightly together, and Billingsley noted that it would probably be wise not to visit Van Pelt for the time being. His skin seemed to itch as he meandered around the main campfire, eyes darting toward the large dwelling that hid the other man.

“Hey Nigel, take a seat! You look exhausted,” Fionn called just a few meters back. Billingsley jumped slightly, immediately breaking free from his clouded thoughts. With a subdued smile, he turned around to face the Irishman, rubbing his calloused palms together.

“Sorry, mate. You’re right. It’s been a long day,” the field guide remarked as he took a seat beside the larger man. Fionn was messing with another pot of his infamous coffee, and Nigel felt the bitterness of the bean against his tongue as he poured the dark liquid into a tin cup.

“I’m just glad nobody got hurt, especially after that poor bloke—well, you know.”

Billingsley shivered at the resurgence of the memory. The young man who had lost his hand to the wild crocodile weeks earlier had succumbed to his injuries only a few days ago. The field guide had been unable to watch the band of mercenaries dump him in a shallow grave, all alone in the middle of the unmarked jungle.

“I’d take a jaguar over a crocodile any day.”

“Are they less dangerous? I don’t know about you, but the claws on those things make me nervous.”

With a smile, Billingsley eyed the other man out of the corner of his eyes. “Jaguars are among the strongest of the wild cats, but they rarely attack humans unless they feel threatened. Tigers on the other hand... they won’t hesitate to try and kill you.”

Fionn visibility shuddered, holding his cup of coffee between the thick digits of his hands. “Well then, I’m glad that tigers don’t live on this god-forsaken island.”

The field guide gave a halfhearted nod, staring ahead into the mass of jungle trees in the distance. The inky blackness shrouded his vision, and he felt a small twinge of fear at the uncertainty of what the darkness held, foreboding and mysterious.

“So, how close are you and Van Pelt really?”

Billingsley’s mouth fell open at the question, and ice seemed to slide down his spine as he immediately shifted away from the other man, reaching for the pot of coffee as his side.

“Why do you ask?” Billingsley questioned, his voice more steady than his shaking hands as he poured himself a drink. Fionn gave a breathy laugh, seemingly unaware of Billingsley’s sudden nerves.

“You’re the only one who has the courage to deal with him. I’ve seen you leave his tent before. What’s he like? Is he as big of a bastard as he is when he’s ordering us around?”

The field guide’s throat was as dry as sandpaper. Forcing himself to inhale the scalding liquid, he carefully avoided Fionn’s gaze.

“He’s—he’s not all that different. We mostly just talk about navigation, and whatnot.”

“Oh come on now,” Fionn exclaimed, knocking Billingsley on the shoulder with a friendly fist. “You’re telling me that he doesn’t put on a big show to try and seem more intimidating?”

“I couldn’t tell you. He’s quite the private man, and I don’t really blame him.”

With a chuckle, Fionn leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach. “Alright, I believe you. Something tells me he’s faking that whole hard-arse routine—but don’t tell him I said that.”

Relief flooded through Billingsley at an end to the conversation, and he let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. Removing his hat, he forced himself onto his cracking knees and stood up, abandoning the half-cup of coffee at his feet.

“Trust me, there’s no one I enjoy talking to less than Van Pelt.”

 

 

Their journey remained just as arduous a week later, and the field guide was more than grateful for the night hours that brought him relief from both the heat and the hiking. The muscles in his ankles were sore to the point of torture, and Billingsley found himself less inclined to do anything until the feeling came back to his feet. Despite his weariness, however, the field guide still set aside time to talk with Van Pelt in the wee hours of early morning. Time spent with Van Pelt promised alcohol, and Billingsley found himself rather desperate to drink the pain and exhaustion away.

“You look tired,” Van Pelt had remarked, watching Billingsley as he threw himself on the closest available surface. His hat, scarf, and boots laid in a pile at his feet. Heaving one arm over his eyes, the field guide opened his free hand and awaited the arrival of a much-needed drink.

“I think I’m getting too old for this line of work,” he muttered under his breath, blindly grasping at the cup Van Pelt held against his gloved hand. Sitting up on his elbows, he slowly ingested the amber liquid, feeling his body grow slightly warmer with each sip.

“You don’t look that old to me,” Van Pelt uttered, arms crossed as he watched Billingsley abandon his drink with furrowed brows. The field guide felt flattered at the quasi-compliment, and he met the man’s hardened gaze with a smile.

“Why, Professor Van Pelt—if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flattering me,” Billingsley exclaimed, slowly rising to his feet and sauntering toward the other man. “For your information, I’ll be turning thirty-nine next March.”

Van Pelt seemed surprised at that revelation, his solemn expression morphing into one of disbelief. Turning his head to the side, he carefully dragged his gaze over Billingsley’s face.

“I wouldn’t have been able to guess.”

“Really? I’m starting to go grey in my beard. How about you?”

“What about me?”

Billingsley rolled his eyes, moving slightly closer towards the other man. “What year were you born?”

Van Pelt’s upper lip twisted as he let out an annoyed grunt. “I don’t see how that’s important.”

“Come on. Tell me. I won’t quit pestering you until you tell me.”

The man became silent, his warring thoughts apparent on his face as he stared at the tented wall behind Billingsley. After a few seconds of contemplation, Van Pelt squared his shoulders and met the field guide’s eyes.

“1898.”

Billingsley let out a subdued guffaw, his eyebrows raised high in surprise. “You’re two years younger than me. That makes me feel especially old.”

Van Pelt’s glower only grew deeper, and he took a step back, seemingly ignoring Billingsley for the time being. His dark eyes swept over the cot that resided just a few meters away, eyeing the cotton sheets that were messily strewn on top of it.

Following the man’s gaze, Billingsley felt his stomach begin to flutter, the alcohol in his veins already causing heat to pool deep within his abdomen. Reaching a hand forward, he gently grabbed at Van Pelt’s shoulder, watching as the other man jumped slightly at the unexpected contact.

They met each other’s eyes without any words, and Van Pelt seemed to promptly understand what Billingsley was implying. Turning back to fully face him, he allowed the field guide to delicately wrap his arms around his shoulders.

“I want to try something different tonight,” Billingsley murmured, relishing the feel of Van Pelt’s hands as they strayed toward his lower back. “If you’re interested.”

Van Pelt seemed to freeze at the statement, a hesitant expression crossing his face. After a few fluttering blinks of his eyelids, he gave a curt nod of approval.

Billingsley’s throat felt dry as he slowly fished a hand through the pocket of his vest. Taking a few steady breaths to calm his hammering heart, he extracted the item and held it up for Van Pelt to see. The confused look he held morphed into one of revelation, and Van Pelt’s eyes grew wide as he glanced from the tube in Billingsley’s hand to the other man’s face.

“Where did you—”

“I stole it. From the medical supplies.”

The man’s mouth shut with an audible click. Fingers twitching against Billingsley’s back, Van Pelt’s jaw clenched as he stared heatedly at the man in his arms.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” he questioned, voice harsh with fervency.

“I’m sure,” Billingsley whispered, a devilish smile stretching across his lips. “It’s not like it’ll be my first time.”

Van Pelt let out a heavy sigh through his nose, reaching a hand toward the nape of Billingsley’s neck. With gentle fingers, he grasped at the auburn strands, pulling slightly at the field guide’s scalp. Billingsley’s eyes fell shut as Van Pelt continued to run his fingers through his hair, silent but for his steady breaths.

Unexpectedly, the warm, dry heat of Van Pelt’s lips grazed his cheek. Eyelids fluttering open, Billingsley felt his heart stutter as the other man placed another chaste kiss on him, right against the corner of his mouth. The tenderness of the expression caused Billingsley to flush, and he immediately shifted his head to the side, capturing the other man’s lips against his own.

For a few moments, the slide of their lips against one other remained subdued. Van Pelt seemed both reluctant and unsure of the contact, and Billingsley immediately rectified that by firmly pressing another kiss alongside the man’s cupid bow.

Van Pelt exhaled harshly through his nose, pulling Billingsley closer toward him as he reciprocated the action. The twinge of arousal that had started to form within his gut came back at full force, and Billingsley moaned against Van Pelt’s lips, leaning against the other man.

The chaste kisses they shared soon shifted into heavier ones, Van Pelt unrelenting as he continued to press his lips against Billingsley’s mouth without restraint. The field guide dug his fingers into the leather coat hanging from his shoulders, sucking against the curve of Van Pelt’s bottom lip before releasing it, savoring the way Van Pelt panted breathlessly as he watched him.

“Fuck me,” Billingsley whispered hoarsely, pressing his half-hard cock against the side of Van Pelt’s hip. “Please, or else I’m going to go mad.”

Van Pelt immediately pulled Billingsley into another bruising kiss, open-mouthed and wet and harsh in its intensity. Billingsley couldn’t withhold another broken moan, hands moving up to Van Pelt’s neck to tug at the dark strands near his nape. With a guttural growl, Van Pelt spun the pair around and haphazardly lead them towards the nearby cot, falling to the mattress and pulling Billingsley into his lap along with him. Using deft fingers, he stripped the man of his vest, not breaking contact with Billingsley’s reddened lips for a second.

The tube of lubricant was still miraculously in the field guide’s gloved grip, and he quickly tossed it among the soft sheets of Van Pelt’s bed. Going lightheaded from a lack of oxygen, Billingsley forced himself to disconnect from the other man’s lips, sucking in a few necessary gulps of air as he pawed at Van Pelt’s clothes.

“Take these off,” the field guide panted, already trying to unbutton the cotton shirt beneath his fingers. Van Pelt swatted Billingsley’s hands away, capturing the other man’s lips once more as he shucked the large overcoat off his muscular frame. In the matter of a few frantic moments, the beige shirt joined the coat alongside the cot, and Billingsley had to pull back to drink in the sight with his very own eyes.

As expected, the other man’s chest and abdomen were well-defined, solid muscle unrivaled by a very thin layer of fat. Van Pelt’s chest was grizzled with a dark mass of curly hair, trailing down to the obvious erection now tented in his trousers. After tearing off his gloves, Billingsley trailed a hand down the tanned skin, hot to the touch and firm beneath his fingertips.

“You’re quite in shape for a professor,” Billingsley murmured, sliding his hand against the man’s muscled abdomen. Van Pelt’s entire chest heaved at the contact, and the low groan that came from deep within his throat sent a shiver down Billingsley’s spine. Not wasting a moment of precious time, he reached toward the hard line of arousal at the front of Van Pelt’s trousers.

A sudden death-like grip caught him around the wrist, and Billingsley looked up just in time to catch Van Pelt’s hair dragging against his cheek as he mouthed at the man’s jaw. Releasing another litany of moans, Billingsley attempted to undo the slippery buttons of his own shirt, frustration making his movements sloppy in urgency. Van Pelt seemed to notice the other man’s inability to get his shirt undone, moving his thick fingers between the slots of the thin material. With one swift tug, he tore the shirt open and rucked it down Billingsley’s arms, the other man letting out an gasp of indignation as the cold air hit his skin.

“That was my favorite shirt!” Billingsley exclaimed, pulling free of the now-torn halves. Van Pelt seemingly ignored his qualms, running his still-gloved hands down Billingsley’s sides as he openly ogled the other man’s bare chest. Flushing deep at the scrutiny, Billingsley wrapped his arms back around Van Pelt’s neck, pressing closer until their naked skin touched.

“I know I’m not as well-defined as you are, but I’ve been told my physique is reminiscent of certain Greek gods—like Dionysus, for example.”

Van Pelt didn’t respond, grabbing Billingsley’s hips as he pushed the other man onto the cot. Falling against the straw mattress, Billingsley’s mouth went dry as Van Pelt moved between his legs, the firmness of his cock pressing against the underside of his still-clothed thigh.

“You’re talking too much,” Van Pelt finally uttered, his dark eyes continuing to roam the plains of Billingsley’s bare chest.

“I tend to do that when I’m bored or aroused, and right now I’m the latter.”

Tugging his gloves off with his teeth, Van Pelt swept a hand from the soft middle of Billingsley’s stomach to the fine hairs that disappeared behind his trousers. Just as quickly as he removed the other man’s shirt, he had both the belt and zipper of Billingsley’s pants undone in record time, tugging them off along with his briefs.

The dry heat of Van Pelt’s palm on his cock was a vast improvement from the usual worn leather of his gloves. Billingsley’s back arched at the sensation, and his legs fell open as Van Pelt continued to solidly stroke him. With his free hand, Van Pelt somehow managed to unscrew the cap of the lubricant in his grasp. Releasing his grip, he poured the liquid across his broad fingers, wrapping the slick digits back around Billingsley’s hardening length in record time.

“ _Ah_ —don’t stop doing that,” Billingsley gasped, trying not to thrust into the wet heat of Van Pelt’s palm.

“You have quite the affinity for language,” Van Pelt observed, lazily slowing his strokes until the other man let out a whine of frustration.

“You’ve said some pretty scandalous things yourself—now please.”

Sitting back on his heels, Van Pelt added an additional layer of lubricant, staring at Billingsley through dark lashes as he slowly spread the slickness over his fingers. Billingsley couldn’t help but shiver at the intensity of his gaze, his cock twitching against his stomach at the sight. Finally deeming his preparation finished, Van Pelt dragged his fingers against the curve of the other man’s ass, causing Billingsley to cant his hips at the wet sensation.

The rough callouses on the palm of Van Pelt’s hand soothed against his hip, and Billingsley found himself holding his breath as the other man just barely added pressure against his entrance. Shifting slightly against the digits, Billingsley whined, waiting for the other man to make a move. After Van Pelt seemed to come to his senses, he inserted the tip of his forefinger into the other man, watching as Billingsley immediately keened at the contact. Attempting to shove himself down with a roll of the hips, Billingsley found himself restrained by the now tight grip Van Pelt had on his hip.

“You—you can go faster, I’m—” a hiss of pleasure cut off the man’s sentence, and he slowly sucked in a breath to try and gain composure. “I’m okay.”

With newfound fervor, Van Pelt inserted the digit up to the knuckle, his eyes narrowing as Billingsley writhed beneath him. Remaining still but for a moment, he slowly moved his finger back and forth, relishing the way the other man clamped around him.

It took very little convincing from Billingsley before Van Pelt eventually added a second and third finger, scissoring the digits together as he continued to eye the tight pleasure on the other man’s face. Billingsley found himself frustrated as he attempted to press down on the fingers, still held in place by the larger man as he continued to prepare him with subdued motions. Letting out an aggravated sigh, Billingsley reached for Van Pelt’s shoulders, his fingernails digging into the man’s skin.

“That’s good enough—now  _please fuck me_ , I swear, I’ll walk right out of this tent if you don’t—“

Van Pelt removed his hand from Billingsley’s hip, wrapping it loosely around the other man’s cock. With a broken stutter, Billingsley’s eyes grew wide as Van Pelt quickened his hand, plunging his fingers deep within him as he dragged his fist down against him.

Billingsley let out a cry as the man’s thick fingers brushed deep within him, his cock leaking against his abdomen as he held onto Van Pelt for dear life. Gritting his teeth and forcing his eyes shut, Billingsley couldn’t garner a response, the pleasure he felt now rendering him speechless.

The heat that spread out over Billingsley’s body was suffocating, and he fucked himself onto Van Pelt’s fingers in an attempt to distract his mind. Forcing his eyes open, he drank in the look on Van Pelt’s face, whining with loss as the man immediately withdrew his fingers and reached for the belt at his waist. Shoving his trousers down just far enough to free himself, he slicked his cock from base to tip, the size of it making Billingsley clench down on air.

When Van Pelt lined himself up to Billingsley’s entrance, the other man was certain that he was going to be split in half. Keening as he felt the weight of Van Pelt’s cock against him, Billingsley grasped at the sheets with white-knuckled strength, his entire body going taut.

The sudden breach of the head of the other man’s cock caused Billingsley to suck in a pained breath, the fullness of the intrusion already making itself known. The slow burn of being stretched was almost too much to bear, and Billingsley tried not to clench down his lower half in an attempt to make the journey easier.

Van Pelt paused just as the first half of his cock was sheathed within the other man. The tendons in his hand were visible, stretched beneath the skin as he let out a guttural groan. Billingsley found the sound intoxicating, and against his better judgement, shoved himself further down the man’s cock. The sound Van Pelt made at the action was so jarring that Billingsley felt himself flush, his thighs trembling as he tried to keep himself still.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Van Pelt hissed after he composed himself, his teeth clenched so tightly together that Billingsley feared they would crack under pressure. Leaning his head back, Billingsley canted his hips, eyeing the other man through lidded eyes.

“What gave it away?” Billingsley murmured, voice strained as he continued to clench around Van Pelt’s cock. Hands moving to grasp at the other man’s hips, Van Pelt thrusted forward, gasping as his cock sank nearly all the way into Billingsley.

The fullness was entirely too much. Billingsley had never had such difficulty in his previous endeavors, and he found himself letting out an aggravated sigh as he desperately tried to adjust to the other man’s girth. Cursing Van Pelt under his breath, Billingsley shifted his legs further back, feeling the slightest relief of pressure within him.

Just as Billingsley was beginning to adjust to the fullness of the other man’s cock, Van Pelt began to pull out, his expression so pained that Billingsley was worried that something had gone wrong. Shifting onto his elbows, he gently kicked at Van Pelt’s hip with his foot, meeting the man’s eyes with a worried expression.

“You’re tight,” Van Pelt murmured, looking concerned as he gripped Billingsley’s hips with a force that could shatter bone. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Billingsley flushed a deep red, momentarily taken by the genuineness of Van Pelt’s words.

“It’s alright, I can take it. I’ll tell you if I need to stop.”

That was all the encouragement Van Pelt needed. In a single thrust, he sank back into Billingsley, groaning at the impossible tightness of the other man. Forcing in a few steady breaths, Billingsley laid back and tried to relax his lower half, keening as he involuntary clamped down on the thickness of Van Pelt’s cock.

After a few tense moments, the other man slowly attempted to start a rhythm. The shallow thrusts eventually began to stretch the muscles deep within Billingsley, and the man let out a sigh of both pleasure and relief. Allowing him a few moments to adjust, Van Pelt quickly pulled out and pushed back into the tight heat, his eyes locked onto Billingsley’s changing expression.

“You’re enjoying this,” Billingsley hissed, meeting the man’s thrusts with a subdued roll of his hips.

Van Pelt didn’t respond, sliding all the way out to the head of his cock before slamming back in. They both let out equal groans of pleasure at the action, Billingsley’s eyes falling shut as the other man continued to rut against him.

The shift of Van Pelt’s hand moving from his hip to the underside of his thigh caused Billingsley to falter his movements. Grasping his fingers tightly around his knee, Van Pelt pushed Billingsley’s leg back as far as it could go before plunging back into him in a single stroke.

“Fuck! Oh _Christ_ , oh—”

With another frenzied snap of the hips, Van Pelt fully sheathed himself back into Billingsley, groaning at the sensation of the other man clenching wildly around him. Picking up his pace, he continued to plunge himself as deep as he could go, watching Billingsley as the man openly writhed beneath him.

Billingsley began to snake a hand toward his own neglected cock, so far lost in pleasure that he was shocked by the feeling of Van Pelt’s hand encircling his wrist. With a perplexed expression, he watched as the man guided his hand towards his face, flushing when Van Pelt pressed his lips against the palm of his hand.

The pace of Van Pelt fucking him was now brutal, his thrusts shaking the entire cot as he panted with exertion. Dark eyes remained glued to the sight of his cock disappearing into Billingsley, mouth slightly agape as if he were mesmerized by the scene before him.

What had previously been too much was now no longer enough, and Billingsley couldn’t withhold a shaky hiss as he attempted to shift position. Van Pelt’s cock continued to miss the necessary point within him, and Billingsley hopelessly tried to fuck himself deeper onto Van Pelt, clenched so tightly he thought he might snap.

“ _Deeper_ —I need it, please—”

Van Pelt’s grip around his wrist was so tight that Billingsley felt his bones grind together. Pressing his hand against the cot as his thrusts growing more erratic, he shifted ever so slightly upward, and Billingsley let out a gasp as the other man finally brushed against his prostate, making his entire body go taut.

With a sudden falter in his rhythm, Van Pelt could only watch as Billingsley shook beneath him, picking up his pace with a newfound fervor. The obscene sound of skin against skin was now deafening, and Billingsley felt himself beginning to lose control as the other man continued to slam into him with reckless abandon.

The rising wave of his release hit Billingsley with a force so intense that his entire body went rigid, every muscle clenched together as he let out loud groan. Van Pelt’s brutal pace did not let up as Billingsley’s cock emptied against against his stomach, his voice shaking with the man’s every thrust. Straining around Van Pelt, Billingsley watched as the other man immediately slowed his pace, unraveling within him. In the matter of a few short seconds, Van Pelt came inside him with a choked moan, thrusting out his release as he held Billingsley in his bruising grip. The wet heat inside him was jarring, and Billingsley felt his entire body shake as he finally met Van Pelt’s eyes, panting and slick with sweat.

For a few moments, neither man made an effort to move, both still trying to recover from the intensity of the moment. Even after his release, Van Pelt’s cock was still entirely-too-hard within him for his liking, forcing Billingsley to grit his teeth together as the burning stretch of the intrusion made itself known.

Van Pelt’s gaze shifted from Billingsley’s face to the mess at his stomach, traveling lower still until he reached the sight of his spent cock nestled deep within the other man. Letting go of Billingsley’s wrist, he pulled back slightly and dragged a hand down the man’s side, his dark eyes boring a hole against his skin. With the patience of a saint, he slowly withdrew from Billingsley, eyes narrowed as the other man hissed at the stinging sensation.

Cracking one eye open, Billingsley’s heart began to stutter as Van Pelt pressed against him, dragging his clean hand across his side. Confusion morphed into drowsy acceptance, and Billingsley shifted back against the nearby pillow as Van Pelt eventually pulled away, eyeing him surreptitiously in the low light of the tent. It only took the field guide the matter of a few moments before his eyes closed on their own accord, exhaustion taking over him as he slowly slipped from the waking world.

 

 

_The warm heat of another body beside him was comforting. The gentle press of skin against skin tethered him to the heat, familiar and safe. Soft sheets encircled his body as he burrowed deeper into the warmth, feeling at peace for the first time since he could remember._

 

 

Billingsley’s eyes were abruptly forced open, narrowing immediately against the warm sunlight that penetrated his gaze.

All the different surroundings encircling him made him feel disoriented as Billingsley quickly struggled to sit up, his eyes glancing wildly around the tent. The familiar wooden desk to his right pricked at his memory, and he jumped when he finally caught sight of Van Pelt standing just a few feet in front of him, dragging on his heavy overcoat. The man was silent, his gaze trained on the ground beneath him. The curtain of dark hair on his head had fallen forward, obscuring his face as he continued to adjust his coat.

“Uh... good morning,” Billingsley ventured forth, voice hoarse. Even in his state of bewilderment, he was acutely aware of the fact that he was still very much in the nude.

Van Pelt startled at the man’s words, his entire body going rigid as his hands clenched together. After a few awkward moments of neither man speaking, he met Billingsley’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Billingsley immediately countered, feeling his face flush as Van Pelt continued to stare at him. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here last night.”

The other man remained silent, dragging his gaze across Billingsley’s face. After a moment of contemplation, he took a deep breath, expression indecipherable.

“It’s fine. You looked like you needed the rest.”

Billingsley felt how dry throat had become, noting that the other side of the cot was still surprisingly warm. Flushing even deeper, he quickly glanced toward the foot of the bed, eyeing the neatly folded pile of clothes beside him.

“I suggest that you try to leave as soon as possible. I don’t think too many of the men are awake yet... if you want to get cleaned up,” Van Pelt announced, shocking Billingsley from his stupor.

For a moment, both men continued to stare at each other, unblinking. Van Pelt’s brow twitched, and he quickly spun around and exited the tent, his long overcoat flowing behind him. Blinking twice in delayed surprise, Billingsley immediately scrambled out from beneath the sheets, throwing on his clothes as fast as he could manage.

 

 

After a few days had passed, Billingsley’s struggle to act natural had abated. The soreness in his lower after the whole affair had certainly been excruciating, and he staunchly avoided being alone with Van Pelt for the rest of the week in an attempt to not destroy what little dignity he had left.

Their group had been making slow progress in navigating the vast swath of jungle at the bottom of the valley. Van Pelt had become agitated by the lack of results, the dark circles beneath his eyes growing deeper with each passing day. Billingsley had taken to being the mediator between Van Pelt’s harsh command and the mercenaries that were unfortunately at the mercy of his wrath.

“Do you ever think you’re being too harsh on them?” Billingsley questioned one night, sitting across Van Pelt as the man poured over his notes.

“No.”

“You know, if you treated the men with more compassion, they might be incensed to work harder.”

Van Pelt let out a derisive snort. Staring up at Billingsley over the pages of his journal, he slowly shut the leather-bound cover.

“These men were hired to do a job, and do it well. I see no reason to treat them any differently.”

Trying not to roll his eyes at the other man’s words, Billingsley scooted slightly forward. “You’re the boss, I suppose. Now, before I forget—I have something for you.”

The disconcerted look that passed over Van Pelt’s face made Billingsley smile in amusement. Reaching into the pocket of his vest, he wrapped his fingers around the surprise and held his closed palm out for Van Pelt to see.

“Open your hand.”

Van Pelt’s lower lip twitched, and he slowly opened one hand beneath Billingsley’s enclosed palm. After a couple beats of necessary suspense, Billingsley opened his fingers and allowed the object to slide into Van Pelt’s grasp. The other man slowly brought his hand closer to his face, confusion morphing into dumbfounded surprise.

“I thought it was only fitting, seeing as you gave me something to wear around my neck first.”

With a rotating twist of his hand, Van Pelt held up a shining dog tag, the metal chain swirling in his grasp. Engraved in the silver metal was the name _Nigel Billingsley_ , as well as the man’s date of birth. The circular plate had become worn with scratches and other imperfections, but remained legible all the same. Van Pelt lowered his hand, staring at Billingsley with a look of intense scrutiny.

“You want me to keep this?”

“Think of it as a token of my appreciation for putting up with my antics.”

Van Pelt didn’t respond, running his thumb across the oblong metal disk. Closing his fist, he shoved the dog tag deep into the pocket of his overcoat, and Billingsley could have sworn he saw a blush tinting the other man’s stubbled cheeks.

 

 

It was by happenstance that they came across the first statue the very next day.

The morning had started out particularly gruesome, heat and humidity sticking to the already sweat-slicked skin of the men. Billingsley’s forehead was soaked beneath his hat, the auburn hairs pressed wetly beneath the brim, causing his eyes to sting as rivulets of sweat streamed down his face. As the day progressed, the sun only grew hotter, baking the earth beneath their feet and causing Billingsley’s skin to turn an angry red.

Nature had carved a path wide enough for their vehicles to travel through, and Billingsley toiled at the forefront of the line with a machete in hand. The peak of the sun high above the jungle trees turned everything a coppery orange, each leaf and frond looking as if it were dipped in sunset and laid out to dry.

In the distance, a towering shadow seemed to jut straight from the ground up. Years of overgrowth wrapped around the dark mass, and Billingsley slowed his step, eyebrows furrowed as he observed the structure. He could hear the sputtering sounds of the engines behind him rattling to an end, and not a second later Van Pelt emerged from the side of the nearest vehicle. All eyes were trained on the archaeologist as he stalked forward, pausing just a few meters away from the enormous stone structure. Van Pelt’s mouth closed with an audible click, his lips pursed as he stared at the statue with a fanatical intensity.

Billingsley moved forward on hesitant legs, keeping his eyes trained on the towering structure. With latent surprise, he realized that the stone was carved in the likeness of an elephant. The dried vines that wrapped around it obscured the finer details of the statue, and Billingsley rounded the structure, feeling a sudden ilk of uncertainty settle in his gut.

“Everyone spread out! See if you can find more of these statues!” Van Pelt barked aloud, dark eyes gleaming in the sunlight. Billingsley distantly heard the sound of rustling grass as the men spread out, venturing deeper into the wilderness of the jungle.

A sudden hand against his shoulder caused Billingsley to startle, blinking rapidly as he realized he had been staring at the statue far too long. Twisting his head to the side, he came face to face with Van Pelt’s collarbone, noting with interest that a familiar metal chain was wrapped loosely around his neck.

“I can feel it,” Van Pelt quietly uttered, his dark eyes dragging over the carved elephant. “We’re almost there.”

The strange apprehension that continued to plague Billingsley only grew more intense, and he carefully turned his gaze back toward the stone statue, worrying the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

Van Pelt finally flicked his gaze back towards Billingsley, his thick brows furrowed in displeasure.

“Save your reservations for other matters, Nigel. When we find the Jaguar Shrine, it’ll be a cause for celebration.”

The slight squeeze of fingers against his shoulder did little to quell Billingsley’s fear, falling away as soon as Van Pelt stalked toward the nearest group of mercenaries. With a sigh, he finally turned his back on the stone structure, a chill traveling down his spine as the feeling of phantom eyes dragged against his skin.

 

 

Their group had little choice in deciding where to set up camp that night, due to Van Pelt ultimately deciding that they would remain as close to the statue as possible. To no avail, they had not managed to find any other similar stone carvings, and Billingsley watched as Van Pelt brewed with an inordinate kind of rage as the day progressed. Dusk had settled in far quicker than usual, and Billingsley had taken it upon himself to wait for Van Pelt to return from his brooding session in the familiar comfort of his tent.

As per usual, Billingsley found the man’s liquor stash in the bottom drawer of his desk. Snatching up the bottle of whiskey and two separate cups, Billingsley almost didn’t notice the worn leather journal that on top of a stack of papers just a few centimeters away.

Billingsley’s fingers twitched against the slim neck of the whiskey bottle. Van Pelt’s rarely left his journal lying about, the thin strip of twine that was used to keep the journal shut unraveled at it’s side.

In the span of a heartbeat, Billingsley abandoned the liquor on the desk and had his fingers pressed against the worn cover. The old leather was marred with a litany of scratches and imperfections, no doubt caused by frequent use. Guilt brewed in the man’s stomach as he slowly flipped open the front cover, revealing the first entry in the journal.

Surprisingly, the swooping cursive letters revealed only basic information about the mission, entry logs and other various lists full of mundane information. With nimble fingers, Billingsley continued to flip through the pages, running his calloused fingertips across the smooth paper edges.

After he had thumbed through twenty or so pages, a splash of dark shapes caught his eye. Slowly turning the page over again, Billingsley’s eyebrows raised as a small photograph laid wedged alongside the inseam of the journal. Too dark to see in the dim candlelight, Billingsley slowly pressed himself forward, narrowing his eyes as he finally realized what he was looking at.

It was a picture of Van Pelt and Bravestone.

The intimacy of their shared contact made Billingsley squirm with unbidden shame, as well as something else he couldn’t quite identify. Bravestone’s mouth was stretched in a blinding grin, his eyes nearly closed at the intensity of his smile. Van Pelt held a more subdued expression, a fairly reserved smile just barely forcing the corners of his mouth upward. The man looked about ten years younger, the heavy circles underneath his eyes nonexistent as he stared at Bravestone through dark lashes.

Van Pelt looked, by all accounts, _happy_.

Billingsley quickly shut the journal, his chest heaving as he took in a deep breath. The sound of approaching footsteps outside the tent alerted Billingsley to turn on his heel, shoving his hands deep within the pockets of his trousers in nonchalance. Not a moment later, Van Pelt pushed past the tarp entrance, a familiar look of discontent apparent on his face. The man didn’t spare Billingsley a second glance, stalking forward with obvious aggravation in his step and snatching the nearby liquor bottle in hand.

The field guide avoided staring at Van Pelt out of the corner of his eye, fixating on a distant crate as Van Pelt emptied a size-able amount of rum into his cup. To Billingsley’s surprise, Van Pelt poured the other man his own drink, not bothering to ask whether the man was staying or going. After a few moments of feigned disinterest, Billingsley discreetly glanced at Van Pelt, not at all surprised to see the man nursing his drink as if his life depended on it.

Billingsley made no move to join the man in drinking, choosing instead to watch Van Pelt as the muscles at his neck contracted with every swallow. A sudden lack of care seemed to pass over Billingsley, and he tilted his head to the side as Van Pelt slammed his cup on the desk, wiping away the spare alcohol at his lip with a gloved fist.

“What happened between you and Bravestone?”

Van Pelt paused, his hand still hanging midair as he slowly locked eyes with the other man. A strange look passed over his face, and Billingsley felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as Van Pelt moved closer, deafeningly silent. In one swift motion, Van Pelt had his fist clenched tightly in the material of his shirt, eyes so cold and dark that Billingsley felt his heart skip a beat.

“I would reconsider asking questions like that,” Van Pelt whispered gravely, ice seeming to drip from his every word. Billingsley merely tilted his head further back, holding the man’s stare as he took in another deep breath.

“Your threats are pointless, and we both know it,” the field guide replied, voice even and unrelenting. Van Pelt’s grip only shook in response, and Billingsley tried not to flinch as the collar of his shirt dug uncomfortably into the back of his neck.

“How you’ve managed to delude yourself into thinking this is any of your business is remarkable,” the man spat, hot puffs of breath hitting Billingsley’s cheek. “I’m not going to entertain your fantasies tonight, Nigel.”

“I’m not an idiot. I know you two were together, so there’s no point in denying it.”

With a snarl, Van Pelt relinquished his grip and spun around, shoulders hunched as he clenched his fists at his side. “You’re just as annoyingly vocal as Bravestone was. Never knowing when to shut your mouth.”

“It’s a gift,” Billingsley murmured, taking a few steps forward. Van Pelt’s shoulders continued to rise and fall as the man simmered with anger, his labored breaths audible.

“I told you before, I don’t want your help or your pity,” Van Pelt snapped, turning back around to face the other man. The muscles at his jaw rippled, and Billingsley had a sudden desire to place his hand along the man’s stubbled chin.

“I’m not pitying you. All I want is to understand.”

Billingsley wasn’t prepared for the full body wince Van Pelt displayed. With wide eyes, the man quickly turned away from Billingsley, his posture less strained as he silently stared toward the entrance of the tent. After the tension seemed to ease from his shoulders, Van Pelt let out a tired sigh.

“I met Bravestone when I first attended university in America. He was the only student who bothered to try and befriend me. We... grew closer as time passed. He was my first and only friend.”

Billingsley offered no words to Van Pelt, watching the man stand as still as a statue as he reveled in the memories of his past. After another beat of silence, the man clenched his hands into fists, arms going taut as he spun on his heel and fixed Billingsley with a murderous stare.

“Bravestone is a traitor, as well as a coward,” he spat, lips curling over his bared teeth. “It makes no difference to me whether he’s alive or rotting deep within the ground.”

With the faintest notion of what might have been empathy, Billingsley moved closer and took one of Van Pelt’s tightened fists in hand. Slowly easing his fingers back, he slotted his hand alongside the worn leather of his glove, staring up into Van Pelt’s dark eyes as the man’s ire seemed to dissipate. Neither party spoke, Van Pelt’s gaze unreadable as the field guide continued to squeeze his hand with a now familiar ease.

 

 

IV. _So we gotta make the most of our one night together  
When it's over, you know we'll both be so alone_

-

After they had proceeded to drink themselves unconscious later that night, Billingsley woke up the very next morning with a splitting hangover and an intense regret for all his decisions in life. The field guide had stolen Van Pelt’s bed for the second time that week, though this time around had been entirely for sleeping purposes. Van Pelt hadn’t even bothered to try and salvage the awkward situation, his large frame pressed right up against Billingsley’s side in the restrained space of the cot. Billingsley found that he didn’t particularly care about any future awkwardness either, burying his head into the nearby pillow as he focused on the soft sounds of Van Pelt’s breathing.

It felt as if only minutes had passed when Billingsley came-to once more, cracking open an eyelid as sunlight filtered through the entrance of the tent. As expected, Van Pelt was nowhere to be found, and Billingsley groggily forced himself to sit up, hissing as his migraine pounded against the walls of his skull. After a few deep breaths to ease the pain, Billingsley forced himself to his feet and quietly exited the tent, surprised to hear a commotion in the distance.

The sight that greeted the field guide when he haphazardly ambled into camp was that of chaos and excitement. Groups of men were running in every direction, carrying various supplies and materials in their grasp. In the distance, a few appointed surveyors were barking out orders, directing more men into the depths of the jungle. Spinning himself around in a circle, Billingsley’s confusion only intensified when Van Pelt was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey! Field guide!”

Billingsley felt slightly startled at the sudden shout, ears ringing as the migraine that continued to throb within him only grew more intense. Massaging his temple, he turned toward the voice that called for him, trying to shake the nausea that settled deep in his stomach.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Van Pelt needs you to come help navigate. They found another statue.”

Blinking away the final threads of exhaustion, Billingsley found himself feeling apprehensive as he followed the man deep into the foreboding jungle. The tall trees seem to loom over him, causing the field guide to glance over his shoulder every so often, perturbed by the silence. A narrow path had been toiled into the dirt, and it wasn’t long before the path abruptly stopped nearby another hulking mass, shrouded by decaying vines and leaves.

When Billingsley caught sight of Van Pelt in the distance, his trepidation relinquished only slightly. The man’s profile was facing the stone structure, thick brows furrowed as he continued to stare at the statue, unblinking. Turning his gaze on the statue, Billingsley slowly wandered towards the man, pushing past the vines and fighting the urge to vocalize his turbulent thoughts.

“First an elephant, now a rhinoceros,” Billingsley murmured, staring up into the animal’s shrouded stone eyes.

“One of the men came upon it by accident earlier. They seem to be heading north,” Van Pelt replied, handing Billingsley the map he had been hiding in his grasp. The field guide took it in hand, staring at the recent markings the other man made.

“Alright. I suppose it’s about time we finally discover whether this entire journey was worth it.”

Van Pelt shifted on his heel, staring down at Billingsley with the same guarded expression he always wore. Despite the neutrality of his appearance, his eyes betrayed a look of both joy and excitement, and Billingsley couldn’t help but feel himself quirk a smile in response. Glancing around the vicinity to make sure nobody else was sight, Billingsley placed the map inside his vest and reached toward Van Pelt’s coat lapels, grasping the material between his fingertips. The other man didn’t fight back as Billingsley slowly pulled him down to his height, pressing a chaste kiss to his stubbled cheek.

“Congratulations in your discoveries, Professor Van Pelt.”

Just as Billingsley was about to release his hold, Van Pelt snaked his arms around him, arms firm as he held the man in his grasp. Flushing deep at the action, Billingsley met Van Pelt’s gaze, challenging his stare as the man pulled him slightly closer.

The soft connection of their lips was more jarring than Billingsley had expected, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes as Van Pelt pulled him against his chest. The risk of getting caught pressed near the back of his mind, and Billingsley found himself not giving a damn who saw them as Van Pelt deepened the kiss, his hands caressing the small of his back.

Just as soon as Van Pelt initiated contact, he broke away with a low gasp, letting go of Billingsley and brushing past him without a second word. Billingsley’s lips were still pursed as he registered what had happened, feeling a mixture of pride and annoyance at the man’s actions. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Van Pelt stalk away, feeling less apprehensive about what was to come.

 

 

Three days later, they found the Jaguar Shrine.

 

 

Billingsley had woken up early that morning with a strange feeling in his gut.

The paranoia that continued to plague the field guide’s mind was unrelenting, like smoke that he couldn’t quite grasp between his fingertips. Turning on his side, he took in the sight of Van Pelt’s face, lax without the usual hardened demeanor he insisted on wearing at all times. The man’s breaths were low, steady and comforting. Billingsley pried himself out from underneath Van Pelt’s solid grip, the anxiety that grew within his stomach twisting his innards like an angry fist.

When dawn had shifted into shining daylight, their group was already tromping through the thick jungle undergrowth, machetes drawn and muscles aching. Billingsley had been the first to notice that the trees grew thin in the distance, and the men eagerly sliced their way toward the treeline, desperate to escape the muggy atmosphere. The open valley they came across stretched on for several kilometers, but the major sight that greeted them had every man stopping in their tracks.

The Jaguar Shrine rested just beyond a patch of scraggly trees, standing tall in all of it’s renowned glory. The creature’s mouth was stretched in a roar, canines bared as if it were warning strangers to stay away. Van Pelt froze at Billingsley’s side as he drank in the sight, moving forward on unsteady legs before he paused, chest heaving in an effort to breath.

“Could it be? Have I finally found it?”

Billingsley felt a twinge of trepidation continue to torment him, eyes moving from the stone Jaguar to the back of the other man’s head. Van Pelt remained silent for a few more moments, his shoulders rising and falling as he continued to worship the sight before him. Clenching his gloved fists, he turned on his heel and fixed the group of mercenaries with a wild stare.

“Unload all the necessary supplies! Bring me all the rope you can find, and do it quickly!”

Billingsley could only watch as the men immediately snapped to, rushing over to the nearby automobiles and grasping at the heavy wooden crates. He couldn’t help but stare at Van Pelt as the man immediately turned his attention back toward the Jaguar Shrine, his face shrouded by the mop of dark hair on his head.

Creeping forward on hesitant legs, Billingsley paused just a few meters away from Van Pelt, worrying his bottom lip as he stared at the other man. Van Pelt hadn’t moved a single muscle since he ordered the mercenaries to disperse, and the field guide continued to press closer until he came to a stop at Van Pelt’s side.

“My entire life I’ve researched the existence of the Jaguar Shrine, and now I finally know that it’s real,” Van Pelt breathed, voice tight with disbelief. Billingsley gave him a side-along glance, stomach continuing to bubble with nerves.

“Now that you know the Jaguar Shrine exists, what are you going to do?”

Van Pelt took another deep breath through his nose, eyebrows furrowing as he dragged his eyes across the stone monument. Sparing the field guide a quick glance, he extracted his journal from the leather satchel at his side, mouth parted slightly in contemplation.

“I’ve always planned on documenting the Shrine’s existence. I need to know whether or not the Jewel exists as well.”

A deep sense of apprehension settled low in Billingsley’s stomach, and he reached a hand forward to grasp at Van Pelt’s shoulder, pausing just a few centimeters away in self-doubt.

“You don’t actually plan on disturbing the Shrine, do you? It’s extremely dangerous, not to mention unnecessary.”

Van Pelt’s brows furrowed deeper, and the look of irritation that twisted his face only added to the worry that Billingsley tried to push from his mind.

“In order to understand the unknown, Nigel, you have to take that risk,” Van Pelt murmured, voice cold. “Go wait with the other men until I get back.”

Billingsley found himself instantly bottling up at Van Pelt’s dismissal, no longer wanting to be within a thousand kilometers of the hulking stone structure. Turning away from the other man, he stalked toward the line of mercenaries in the distance, trying not to eye the lines of rope that sat along the dying grass.

 

 

Van Pelt had left only minutes after their conversation had ended, trekking toward the Jaguar Shrine with a bundle of rope in hand and a dark gleam in his eyes.

The waiting had been arduous underneath the blistering sunlight, and Billingsley lamented the loss of the canopy of leaves overhead. Adjusting his hat, he continued to pace beneath the sparse shade of the nearby marula trees, his boots kicking up dust with each impatient step. In an attempt to speed up the process, Billingsley removed his pocket watch from within the confines of his vest.

Dread made the field guide’s stomach hurt with each passing minute, and despite the scalding heat of midday, a cold sweat had somehow managed to break out between his shoulder blades. Growing more frustrated by the mocking pace of the watch, Billingsley snapped it shut and continued to pace, digging his fingers into his hips.

It seemed as if the moment would stretch on for an eternity, an endless cycle of pacing and minute hands that never quite reached the next interval.

A sudden clash of thunder sounded overhead, and Billingsley startled, gazing up at the sky with wide eyes. Dark clouds rolled over the immense blue of late afternoon, and the field guide slowly moved into the dwindling light, fear paralyzing his heart. In the matter of only a few seconds, the entirety of the sky was blocked by storm clouds, dark as night and heavy with unbound energy. Lightning struck the trees in the far distance, and Billingsley swallowed thickly, trying to calm his pounding heart.

An entire lifetime seemed to pass before Van Pelt was seen cresting the nearby hill.

Billingsley wasted no time, hurrying toward the other man and ignoring the crackle of air around him. The thunder from above continued to crash louder and louder, sounding like a chaotic drum that had lost it’s beat. Heaving in another lungful of air, Billingsley came to a stop, eyeing Van Pelt’s shrouded figure as the veil of clouds turned everything a stony-gray.

Something was wrong. The hairs on Billingsley’s neck stood on end, and he froze in alarm, hands held up in front of him in a mock display of defense.

Van Pelt stepped out into the silvery light, his palm wrapped around something obscured by the length of his overcoat. Twisting his wrist, an unearthly green light emanated from his hand, and Billingsley’s eyes grew wide as he realized what the man held in his grasp.

The Jewel of Jumanji shone with a light so brilliant and unnatural that Billingsley found himself taking a step back, terrified of something he didn’t quite understand. Tearing his gaze away from the Jewel, he felt his mouth go dry as he finally glanced at the other man’s face.

Van Pelt’s left eye was completely clouded over, a sickly white spreading over the once-dark iris.

Billingsley’s fear quickly morphed into anger, and he glared at Van Pelt as the realization of the man’s actions finally settled in. Without a single word of explanation, Van Pelt sauntered forward, his gait slack as he pushed past Billingsley and stood at attention a few meters ahead.

A rustling movement from behind caught the field guide’s attention. Distant chitterings and hisses prodded his eardrums, and he turned his head to the side, disbelief causing his mouth to fall open. An army of rats and snakes skittered across the grass, heading straight for Van Pelt with an almost precognitive accuracy. Stepping out of the way, Billingsley felt as if his heart had frozen from fear, watching Van Pelt as the man slowly held out his arm.

The Jewel remained firmly grasped in his left hand, gloved fingers possessively gripping the emerald stone. Only moments later, an enormous vulture perched itself on Van Pelt’s forearm, it’s talons curling around the thick material of his overcoat. Standing as still as a statue, Van Pelt quirked his head to the side, eyeing the mercenaries that circled around him.

Lips curling over his teeth in a disturbing grin, Van Pelt headed toward the treeline, silent but for the sound of his boots upsetting the grass underfoot.

 

 

Billingsley had tried to fight the rising nausea that threatened to overcome him when they set up camp, his stomach twisting with a pain so visceral that he thought he might be sick. The men pitched their tents far quicker than they had ever managed before, and Billingsley could only try to set up his own tent with shaking hands, hardly effective in his efforts. A roaring fire burned at the center of camp, and Billingsley found himself staring into the flickering flames, trying to gather his wits.

Van Pelt’s tent sat only fifteen or so meters away. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Billingsley pushed to his feet and slowly marched forward. Time seemed to move at half speed, and Billingsley’s nerves only intensified with each shaking step. When he finally came to a stop at the entrance of the tent, his heart was hammering so fast that he felt lightheaded. Steeling himself for whatever was to come, Billingsley slid his hand between the tarpaulin curtains and pushed his way through.

A single candle was lit on top of the man’s desk, dripping wax onto the dark wood. Billingsley’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light before immediately locking on to the obscured figure hunched behind the desk. Van Pelt was facing the opposite direction, his dark hair creating a curtain beside his face as he quirked his head to the side, half-heartedly acknowledging Billingsley’s presence.

The field guide’s throat felt as dry as sandpaper. Swallowing his fear, he took a step forward, forcing himself to stare directly at Van Pelt.

“You have to put the Jewel back,” he announced, voice barely above a whisper.

Van Pelt’s head slowly tipped to the side, seeming to mull over what the field guide had said with cold disinterest. After a few beats of tense silence, he slowly turned over in his chair, facing Billingsley with a pitiless expression. The white iris that pinned the field guide down seemed to glow unnaturally in the low light, refracting the green rays that emanated from the Jewel in Van Pelt’s hand.

“Is that so?” Van Pelt murmured, his stare as cold as ice. Billingsley tried not to flinch at the almost unnatural quality to his voice, deeper than usual and rooted in animosity.

“Yes, it is. You have no idea what kind of forces you’re messing with. This—this _thing_ is obviously not something you or I know how to deal with. You have to put it back.”

Van Pelt was on his feet only seconds later, approaching the field guide with slow, precise steps. Forcing himself to hold his ground, Billingsley watched as Van Pelt came to a stop only centimeters away, mouth slightly agape as he stared at the man with furrowed brows.

“You’re the only one who understands, Nigel,” Van Pelt murmured, dragging his free hand against the curve of Billingsley’s jaw. The movement was more erratic than gentle, and ice seemed to slide down the field guide’s spine as Van Pelt’s damaged eye stared at him from only a few centimeters away.

Anger forced Billingsley to pry himself from Van Pelt’s leather-clad grip, a more intense feeling of despair rolling in the pit of his stomach. Van Pelt immediately stilled his hand, perplexed and distraught by the action. Before Billingsley could react, Van Pelt let out a snarl, stalking away from Billingsley with his dark eyed narrowed.

“You really are just as annoying and self-righteous as Bravestone,” Van Pelt spat, flecks of saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth. His free hand started to shake, clenching and unclenching as if it were a snake preparing to strike.

“And you’re just as arrogant as you’ve always been,” Billingsley snarled in return, fury painting his vision red. “You’re possessed! I don’t know how you can’t see what the Jewel has done to you!”

In one swift movement, the man had his fingers wrapped around the thin material of Billingsley’s scarf. Shock paralyzed the field guide as he was tugged to the side, fingers grasping tightly at Van Pelt’s hand before he was shoved against the nearby desk. Sharp wooden edges dug uncomfortably into his back, and Billingsley could only watch as Van Pelt loomed over him, remorseless.

When Van Pelt spoke, his voice was strangely calm, barely audible over the other man’s frantic heartbeat.

“You mean nothing to me.”

Billingsley froze, his courage faltering as he processed the man’s words. Throat seizing up unexpectedly, he worked around an intangible ball of cold fury, glaring at Van Pelt with a newfound hatred that burned deep within him.

“You and I both know that’s a lie, _Russel_.”

The force of being dropped to the ground winded Billingsley momentarily. For a few panicked seconds the field guide couldn’t breathe, staring wide-eyed at his hands as he fought to take in air. Just as the edges of his vision started to go blurry, his lungs finally contracted, and Billingsley gasped in shaky relief. Shocked by his own contempt, Billingsley glared up at Van Pelt, fingers desperate to grab the pistol at the man’s side and hold it against the man’s sternum.

“I don’t know why I ever trusted you. You’re too much of a coward to do the right thing, and you know it. Bravestone was smart to leave you while he could.”

Van Pelt’s expression was indistinguishable in the murky darkness of the tent. Smoke curled around the now-snuffed candle, tipped on it’s side and melting in a pool of it’s own wax. Billingsley could taste the bile in his throat as he continued to glower at Van Pelt, unblinking for fear of what the other man would do next.

Seconds later, Van Pelt exited the tent without another word, the green jewel still held firmly in his grasp. Billingsley was alone.

 

 

It was sure to be a suicide mission.

Billingsley wasted no time in absconding with Van Pelt’s journal, half-hidden beneath a pile of unsorted documents and various other texts. In his frantic state, he ending up ripping one edge of the much-needed map as he tore it from the man’s desk. Shoving both items into the confines of his vest, he crept quietly from Van Pelt’s tent, desperate to forget what had occurred only minutes earlier.

It was the solitude of his own tent that calmed the frenzied beat of Billingsley’s heart. After allowing himself a few moments to catch his breath, he tore open the journal, flipping through the various pages as he gnawed the inside of his cheek. Underneath one of the passages marked a short excerpt that detailed the legend of the Jewel, written in neat cursive ink.

_It is said that the Jewel contains supernatural abilities. Several reports throughout oral legend detail a trend of misfortune and heartbreak. Whoever possesses the Jewel will gain power over Jumanji, but at a terrible price. Blinding the Jaguar binds ones soul to it, and eventually leads to that person’s eventual demise. The curse can only be lifted by returning the Jewel to it’s rightful place..._

Whether he was going crazy or whether the legend rang true was of little importance. Billingsley quickly shut the journal, forcing himself to ignore the rational part of his brain that told him this was all just an elaborate hoax.

It was unnervingly real, and Billingsley was certainly going to pay the price, either with his life or Van Pelt’s.

After he had gathered all of his necessities, the field guide stepped out into the cool night air, relishing the soothing breeze against his heated skin. The campfire still burned brightly in the distance, and he slowly made his way toward the glowing flames, eyes trained for any signs of danger. Billingsley’s breath caught in his throat as he noticed Van Pelt sitting in a chair need the fire’s edges, twisting the Jewel in his gloved grasp. Even with several meters between them, Billingsley couldn’t tear his gaze away from the man’s milky iris, haunted by it’s sickly-white shade.

It took several more hours to pass before the men around the fire had fallen asleep.

Billingsley had waited patiently along the outskirts of the clearing, a mixture of anger and determination keeping him awake. Van Pelt seemed to have fallen into a restless sleep, eyelids twitching as if he were experiencing a nightmare. Creeping closer on silent feet, the field guide glanced around the clearing, looking for any signs of consciousness from the surrounding men.

When Billingsley came to a stop beside Van Pelt, he felt another lump of rage lodge itself in his throat. The man looked agitated, nowhere near as peaceful as he had been earlier that morning when he slept at Billingsley’s side.

A stab of hurt at the memory caused his heart to skip a beat, and the field guide shoved the traitorous feeling down into the depths of his stomach. Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, Billingsley continued to move closer, gazing at Van Pelt’s face with narrowed eyes. His hands shook as he reached forward, careful not to alert the other man as his fingers brushed against the Jewel’s edges.

Suddenly, Van Pelt shifted with a guttural groan, eyelids fluttering in near-consciousness. Freezing as a wave of alarm washed over him, Billingsley grit his teeth together, fingers slipping against the stone as he quickly pried it out from under Van Pelt’s grasp. In one frantic motion, the field guide pulled the Jewel close to his chest, a sigh of relief escaping between his parted lips.

An unexpected screech shocked Billingsley from his reverie, piercing his ears as he scrambled away on shaking legs. Time seemed to move at twice the normal speed as he flew past the treeline, shoving away errant branches that impeded his escape.

Three sudden rounds of gunfire rang out from behind him, and Billingsley stumbled as the sound of metal meeting wood missed him by a few meters. Distant shouts echoed in the night air, yet the field guide forced himself to keep running, lungs burning with each frenzied breath.

Billingsley thought he was going to suffocate when he finally collapsed alongside a fallen tree, every muscle in his body straining with exertion. Sweat poured from underneath his hat, and his hand ached as he relinquished his bruising grip on the Jewel. For a moment, the field guide just wanted to sit and collect his bearings, struggling to calm his heart as it threatened to burst from his chest. Closing his eyes and digging his palms into the wet earth, he craned his head back, desperately sucking in as much air as his lungs could handle.

A distant voice caressed his ear, so soft and light that the field guide had to strain to make sense of it.

_You mean nothing to me._

 

 

 

 

  
“Can I interest you in another bowl of porridge, Nigel?”

The field guide startled, gripping the inked nib of his pen with more force than necessary.

“I’m alright, Yibanathi. Thank you.”

It was the slight creak of wood underfoot that told Billingsley that the conversation wasn’t over. Forcing himself to continue staring at the parchment beneath his fingertips, he tried not to react as a warm hand settled against his shoulder, comforting and familiar.

“You’re not eating well. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were upset about something.”

Billingsley allowed the tension to leave his shoulders, sagging against the wooden chair with a sigh. Glancing up at the elderly woman, he dodged her questioning gaze and focused on the deep wrinkles that collected near the corners of her lips.

“I just—I can’t think.”

Yibanathi seated herself on a nearby stool, her frail hand still tethered to the field guide’s shoulder. An air of empathy seemed to emanate from her, and Billingsley wanted nothing more than to disappear, self-loathing churning deep within his gut.

“Stop blaming yourself for what happened. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own,” the woman whispered, her sympathetic gaze tearing a hole in Billingsley’s heart.

“I know that, I just...” trailing off with a frustrated sigh, the field guide threw his pen down and rubbed at his eyelids. “I should have been able to see it coming.”

Silence met his pitying words, and Billingsley cracked a peek from between his fingers, perplexed. Yibanathi continued to stare at him, though her gaze had taken a more serious edge.

“It’s hard to see how the ones we love change—and don’t interrupt me while I’m talking, I still have things to say,” the elderly woman rebutted, holding up a shaking finger as Billingsley spluttered in protest.

“I _don’t_ —“

“Be quiet, Nigel. Whether you want to admit it or not, you have feelings for this man. There’s no shame in acknowledging that.”

Billingsley’s mouth shut with an audible click. Letting out a huff of exasperation, he thumbed his nearby pen, rubbing a spot of ink between his fingertips.

“It’s quite pathetic, isn’t it? You’d think I’d stop caring after he tried to shoot me dead.”

Yibanathi withdrew her hold, sadness seeming to age her by a few years. Glancing at the other man between half-lidded eyes, she let out a shaky breath, folding her wrinkled hands on top of her lap.

“If what you say is true, that man out there is not the same man that you grew to care for. If there’s any possibility of bringing him back, you mustn’t lose hope.”

The lump that settled deep within Billingsley’s throat was raw, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from showing any signs of outward emotion. Glancing downward, a newfound surge of hope flowed through his veins as the inked words of his letter began to dry.

 

 

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you in private for a moment, Dr. Bravestone.”

The field guide had been preparing himself for this very moment over the course of several weeks. Bravestone gave him a nod of affirmation, moving into step beside Billingsley as the other man lead them a fair distance away from the group. Taking in a deep breath, Billingsley turned to face Bravestone, wetting his lips as he searched for the right words to say.

“I’d like to think that by being frank, I make this awkward situation easier for the both of us.”

Bravestone quirked his head to the side, curiosity raising one of his slender brows. Billingsley nervously continued, meeting the other man’s eyes with all the courage he could muster.

“Van Pelt and I were not only hired acquaintances. We... we were close during the mission.” Breaking away from Bravestone’s perplexed gaze, the field guide crossed his arms, swallowing a dry patch near the back of his throat. “Considering your history with Van Pelt, I thought you had the right to know.”

Bravestone’s silence was deafening, yet Billingsley forced himself to wait for the other man’s response. Shifting uncomfortably as the man remained silent, he slowly met Bravestone’s stare once more, unnerved by the apparent shock on his face.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘close?’”

Billingsley looked everywhere but toward the man in front of him, letting out an embarrassed cough. Seeming to understand the field guide immediately, Bravestone's eyes grew wide.

“I see... so he told you about us, then. I’m sure none of it was complimentary towards me.”

Flinching at the man’s words, Billingsley shook his head, desperate to change the topic.

“I know very little about what happened between you and Van Pelt, all I know is that you were—together. That you had a falling out. Van Pelt wasn’t very open about the whole ordeal.”

At that, Bravestone chuckled, and Billingsley glanced up at him in surprise as the archeologist moved incrementally closer.

“That’s exactly what I’d expect from him. He was never very good at expressing his emotions.”

Nodding halfheartedly in agreement, Billingsley stared at the ground, lamenting the several stilted conversations they shared.

“Are you doing alright?” Bravestone questioned suddenly, shocking the field guide from his muddled thoughts. Immediately nodding his head in affirmation, Billingsley uncrossed his arms and wet his lower lip.

“I’m fine, thank you Dr. Bravestone. Again, I apologize for any offense I may have brought upon you.”

Bravestone’s eyes grew soft, and he took another step forward, forcing Billingsley to meet his eyes.

“I’m not mad at you, Nigel. I understand what you’re probably going through. If there’s anything I can do to help, please ask.”

A sudden request forced it’s way to the forefront of Billingsley’s mind. Blinking rapidly, he met Bravestone’s eyes, steeling himself as he took in another silent breath.

“All I ask is that you don’t hurt him,” Billingsley murmured, waiting for the other man’s inevitable rebuke. To his surprise, Bravestone merely nodded in agreement, dark eyes entirely too understanding for the field guide’s own good.

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t come to that. I promise.”

 

 

V. _Then like a sinner before the gates of Heaven  
I'll come crawling on back to you_

-

Billingsley wasn't sure that he was grateful for Bravestone keeping his promise.

The temperature inside the man’s quarters was chilly, his fireplace in the adjacent corner remained unlit. Raindrops pelted against the aged glass windows, sounding like bullets of fury descending from above. Billingsley was currently scribbling out another letter, this time addressed to the good Professor Oberon. He had heard from Bravestone that Seaplane was in stable condition, and found himself writing the letter as a gesture of good will to appease his own disconsolate state.

Only three days had passed since everything came to a head. Seaplane had been lucky enough to survive the ordeal, though Billingsley couldn't help but feel partially responsible when he had stared down at the young man, comatose and hanging on by a thread. Rushing the pilot to the nearest doctor at the Bazaar had been a miracle in and of itself, and for once the field guide felt as if he had finally done something right for a change. Professor Oberon had thanked him profusely for coming to the rescue, and yet a bitter taste still tainted the back of Billingsley's throat, more acrid than bile.

A shift of movement from behind caused Billingsley's hand to pause, ink collecting at the tip of his fountain pen. Turning his head to the side, he eyed the covered mass that currently occupied his bed, worry tugging at his mind. With a flicker of irritation for the unwelcome emotions, Billingsley stubbornly turned his back on the shrouded figure, cursing a large spot of ink that bled across the once-pristine page.

Another sound emanated from beneath the covers, sounding labored. Billingsley clenched his eyes shut at the noise, letting out a breath he hadn't even realized he’d been holding. Despite his apprehension, the field guide's lack of self-control had him rising from his seat only moments later, stomach twisting into knots as he made his way towards the bed.

Van Pelt rested uneasily beneath the covers, brows furrowed even in his unconscious state. A litany of bruises and scratches marred his cheeks and forehead, an ugly reminder of the fight that had nearly cost Seaplane his life. A deep gash along his upper eyebrow had required a surgical suture, the threads lined in a neat, precise row. The sling that wrapped around his right arm had become misplaced during the night, and Billingsley wasted no time in setting the man’s injured arm back into the necessary support of the cloth strap.

Pulling back after he deemed his work finished, Billingsley almost startled out of his skin as Van Pelt’s eyes stared back at him, his left iris still pallid and sickly. For a moment, Van Pelt looked as equally shocked as the field guide felt, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to his surroundings.

“Nigel,” the man croaked in surprise, voice hoarse from lack of use. "It's you?"

Even in the overcast light, his expression revealed some sense of relief at the other man’s presence. Swallowing a biting retort, Billingsley immediately moved to his feet, turning his back on the other man. His heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest, threatening to burst from his rib cage as he eyed the opposite wall.

“Of course it’s me, you’re in my quarters,” the field guide rushed to say, sounding more eloquent than he had any right to be. “Now that I think about it, I should have left you in the barracks.”

Van Pelt didn’t respond. Rain continued to hammer down against the windows, a steady constant that tethered Billingsley to reality.

“I thought Bravestone was finally going to be a man and end it all,” the man growled beneath his breath, sounding resentful as he audibly shifted among the sheets. Turning on his heel, Billingsley glared at Van Pelt, shaking with a fury he didn’t know he was capable of.

“He should have, considering the fact that you're a murderer. If Seaplane ended up dying because of you, I would have finished the job with or without Bravestone’s assistance.”

Van Pelt met Billingsley’s gaze evenly, expression indecipherable.

“So the pilot lived... I’m sure that it was a very heartwarming moment. I’m still not sure why Bravestone bothered to pay me the same respects after he beat me unconscious.”

Another wave of rage flowed through Billingsley, and he forced himself to bite his tongue, fingers clenched into tight fists. Deciding that he was too angry to be the better man, he took a step forward, every muscle in his body taut.

“As far as Bravestone was concerned, death was too good an end for you,” Billingsley spat, his animosity only intensifying with each passing second. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, rain beating down harder overhead as he fought to steady his breaths.

“That doesn’t explain why I’m here, Nigel.”

All the pent-up frustration that was building within Billingsley dissipated. A sudden, overwhelming hopelessness washed over the field guide, and he found himself taking a seat alongside the edge of his bed in defeat. Feeling as hollow and brittle as a glass bottle, he rested his hands alongside his thighs, staring at the wooden floor below his feet.

“Call me a coward, or a hypocrite. I couldn’t let you die out there alone, even though it’s what you deserved.” Turning to face Van Pelt directly, his tired acceptance only morphed into self-loathing, an intense hatred not only for himself but for his lack of ability to even care.

Van Pelt’s state of mind was still unclear, expression stonily neutral as he watched Billingsley with a careful gaze. For a split second, his damaged eye didn’t appear as frightening as it had before, and Billingsley found himself reaching forward without a conscious effort. The other man startled as Billingsley dragged a thumb beneath his eye, pressing the digit gently against the rough edge of his upper cheek. Brows furrowing slightly, Van Pelt remained silent as Billingsley continued to examine his eye, concern now apparent on his troubled face.

“I’m not sure this is ever going to get better,” Billingsley murmured, continuing to scrutinize the other man’s face. “Can you still see out of it?”

The silence that greeted the field guide’s question was deafening, and Billingsley immediately pulled back, swallowing another bout of anxiety that plagued him. Van Pelt's stare had gone soft, his eyes half-lidded as he continued to watch Billingsley. Forcing himself to break apart from Van Pelt’s gaze, Billingsley meddled with the quilted blanket beneath him, gripping the sewn material with a sudden desperate need.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

Billingsley froze, blinking twice as the shock of Van Pelt’s words caused his breath to catch in his throat. Turning back to face the other man, he furrowed his brows, gazing at the man through thin auburn lashes.

“I can’t forgive you.”

Van Pelt’s expression shifted, and for the first time since they met, the man allowed a look of vulnerability to break through his hardened façade. His eyes turned glassy, unfocused as he reached his uninjured hand forward and grasped at Billingsley’s closed palm.

For the first time in a long time, Billingsley understood.

The immediate calm that washed over him was freeing, and he quickly wrapped his fingers around Van Pelt’s calloused hand, uncaring of his own duplicity. Just outside the window, the rain had begun to cease, now only a gentle smatter of droplets against the clouded glass. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everyone! Comments and feedback are always appreciated!


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